


Senior Year

by pearl_o, pocky_slash



Series: Practical Cartography [2]
Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Anxiety, Birthday, Brother-Sister Relationships, Fade to Black, First Time, Growing Up, M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Sexuality Crisis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-20 07:18:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 34,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2419898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearl_o/pseuds/pearl_o, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/pseuds/pocky_slash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of stories following Charles and Erik's new relationship throughout their senior year as they approach the imminent change of graduation.</p><p>Chapter One: "Uncharted Territory:" Charles tries to plan a special birthday weekend for Erik, fueled by his growing awareness that their time together is limited.</p><p>Chapter Two: "all points of the compass:" Erik discovers Charles likes boys and girls both and is once again forced to grapple with who he is, what he wants, and the creeping knowledge that maybe he's just as much of a freak and just as alone as he's always feared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. November: Uncharted Territory

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct sequel to [you follow and i'll lead](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1443139) and will make much more sense if you read that story first.
> 
> Each chapter of this collection is a completed work that can be read on its own.
> 
>  **Content Notes:** Chapter 1 is rated "M" for a combination of brief on-screen sex, the implication of off-screen sex, and (mostly) quite a bit of characters talking or thinking about sex.

Raven has decided to allow Charles into her sanctuary, a rare honor these days and therefore correspondingly valued by Charles. There's something about Raven's room that's more comfortable than most of the rest of the house, Charles feels. Maybe it's just a matter of personality; Raven insisted on redecorating it when she was in junior high, just a few years ago, and the pink-and-cream fluffiness of it all is a marked contrast to the dark wood and old-fashioned heaviness that dominates the other rooms, Charles' own bedroom (which he has never bothered to think about changing, since he graduated from the nursery) included.

He's sprawled across Raven's bed, head hanging over the edge of the mattress to watch her upside down as she fusses at her vanity, playing with her make-up and hair. Charles finds it a little funny, really; what's the point of spending hours like that, when she could look like whatever she wants in an instant? The hair and face she's playing with aren't even what she really looks like, which makes it even stranger.

Still, he knows better than to say anything about it. Raven is prickly, lately. It's been weeks since they bickered, and Charles prefers to keep it that way.

Tonight her explorations are more dramatic than usual, though, practicing for the costume party she's going to tomorrow night.

"Who's going to the party, then?" Charles says.

"Everybody!" Raven replies cheerfully. "Except you, of course."

"And Erik."

"And Erik," Raven says, rolling her eyes. They're thickly lined with black make-up, making the blue of her irises pop. Charles could swear she rejected the Cleopatra costume a half hour ago, but apparently she's trying it again. "I swear, I should charge you a nickel every time you say his name. You can't go ten minutes."

"I don't talk about him _that_ much," Charles says, rather suspecting it's a lie as the words leave his mouth, even before Raven's loud "Ha!" in response. He shifts his position, sitting up on the bed, a little dizzy as the blood rushes down from his head. "Well!" he says defensively. "He's on my mind a lot. That's only natural."

"You don't hear me going on about Buddy the way you go on about Erik," Raven says.

"That's different," Charles says before he can stop himself. She raises one eyebrow at him and, mercifully, he manages to keep from saying more. He and Erik--it's different than Raven and Buddy, then most of the kids at school, really. The way he feels about Erik--the way he's always felt about Erik--isn't some school boy fancy. He loves Erik, from somewhere deep inside of him. He'll never feel this way about anyone else, he already knows.

He doesn't say any of that, though, least of all because he feels childish and ridiculous saying it out loud and because Raven will be both offended and skeptical the moment the words leave his mouth. Instead, he manages to twist it into something more relevant, saying, "I just mean I've known Erik forever. He's my best friend so of course I talk about him all the time. I always have."

"Not like this," Raven says. "You used to be able to hold an actual conversation that didn't wander off into the color of Erik's eyes or how smart he is." Charles can feel his cheeks heating up, but he knows anything he says in response will probably just further Raven's point. "Anyway, shouldn't you be cramming for your college essays and interviews?"

"That's not for ages yet," Charles insists, back on firmer ground. "The interviews won't be until I get my applications in and the applications aren't due for a few months. I still haven't decided everywhere I want to apply. I mean, Harvard, naturally, and I think I've decided against Oxford and Cambridge, at least until I'm doing graduate work. But maybe Columbia or Princeton."

"This is the first time I've _ever_ heard you talk about anything other than Harvard," Raven says. "I wonder what's suddenly keeping you closer to home."

"Oh, shove it," Charles says. 

Raven chuckles and spins around on her stool to face him. "What do you think?" she says, gesturing toward her face. "Imagine it with the short black wig and lots of gold."

"Pretty," Charles says loyally.

"Pretty, but...?" Raven prompts.

"I liked the Marie Antoinette better."

Raven turns again to the mirror, leaning in. "Hmm."

"How many costumes did you get, anyway?" Charles asks, curious. He's already seen three make-up possibilities and at least one of the actual outfits sticking out of her closet. "And are they all queens?"

"Well, one was a cat," Raven says, "but I like the symbolism better for the others, don't you?"

Charles allows that the bossiness, at least, is appropriate, and Raven sticks her tongue out to his reflection.

"So what _are_ you and darling Erik going to do this weekend, since you're skipping actually being social with the rest of us?" Raven says.

The question is enough to drop Charles' mood; he frowns and slumps back against Raven's mountain of pillows. "Nothing."

"No?" She's picked up one of the many jars littering the vanity and is beginning to spread cold cream across her face.

"He's in New Jersey with his mother all weekend visiting his aunt." Tante Hanna isn't really his aunt - Erik doesn't have any other relatives - but she's a friend of Mrs Lehnsherr's going back a million years, to when she'd immigrated to the US, younger than Raven, even.

It's actually the first Halloween Charles is spending without Erik since he was five. They'd gone trick-or-treating together all through elementary school, and then when they were too old for that, Charles had always gone down to the Lehnsherrs' to help pass out candy, since the Xavier house was too far out for them to ever get trick-or-treaters.

Of course, even if Erik were _here_ , it's not like they would have any opportunity to be alone together.

"Oh gosh, a weekend apart, how terrible," Raven says. "However will you survive three whole days without necking?"

"We don't, though," Charles says, burying his face in Raven's pillow with more despair than is probably warranted. He knows he's falling right back into talking about Erik again, but Raven asked, so he figures it's allowed.

"Yeah, right," Raven says from behind him.

"No, I mean--" Charles sighs and pushes himself up again, twisting to look at Raven in the mirror. "I mean--we hardly ever have time alone, really. We see each other every day, but either we're at school or we have homework or Mrs. Lehnsherr is home. There's never any time for just us."

It's been a struggle. Erik is more cautious than Charles, which adds to the frustration--despite the fact that they spent more than one afternoon nearly naked together before they officially became a couple, Erik is hesitant to go that far again when his mother could walk in the door at any time. They've kissed, of course, and even managed to get their hands into each other's pants, but their exploration of each other has ground to a halt. There are so many things that Charles wants to do, to try, and he knows Erik does too. It's driving him mad that he doesn't have the time and space to do any of them. He almost wishes they hadn't had their sleepover date night--he has no idea when they'll have an opportunity for something like that again and he's starting to think he'd be better off if he didn't know how wonderful it could be to have whole days to spend together.

"I suppose you can't just head out to the overview and park, huh?" Raven says. She frowns into the mirror as she wipes the Cleopatra make-up off of her face with a cloth. 

"Not really, not with so many other couples there," Charles says. "And Erik's afraid his mother will think something's up if he starts coming over here too much more often, even though there's more space."

"And it's not like Sharon's ever around," Raven says darkly, her eyes flashing yellow.

"Small mercies," Charles murmurs. Between the size of the house and their mother's erratic hours and habits--not to mention Charles' ability to sense her mind--the two of them can go weeks at a time without seeing her. Of course, it just makes it all the more infuriating when she does show up and demands their attention or obedience again. 

Charles can remember the time before their father died, before Mother married Kurt. She was different then, Charles is almost sure. He can remember holding Raven when she was a newborn, sitting in his mother's lap while she smiled and laughed. But Raven can't remember her ever being anything but like she is now. Charles can't blame Raven for despising her the way she does. 

Raven's still gazing at herself in the mirror. The outer surface of her thoughts has gone solemn and a little sad, and though he's not willing to look any deeper, Charles says with some concern, "Raven?"

Almost immediately, she shoots him a bright smile. "Right! You and Erik." She rises from and crosses the room, sitting down at the foot of the bed and curling her legs underneath her. 

"I know it sounds stupid," Charles says. "It's just... hard." He shrugs helplessly. 

Raven reaches out and pats him gently on the ankle. "It's okay. I'm used to you being whiny." 

"I wish--" Charles cuts himself off.

"What?"

"His birthday's coming up, you know?" Raven nods. "I wish I could make a big deal out of it. Do something romantic. Take him out to a fancy dinner in the city and buy him something from the jeweler's."

"Yes, I'm sure Erik would look absolutely fetching in a tiara or a gold necklace," Raven says. Charles shoves at her feebly, but she ducks out of the way and continues, "No, I get it. But you can take him out at least, can't you? I mean, if it's for his birthday, I'm sure Edie won't notice anything's wrong. You guys went into the city last year for your birthday, didn't you?"

"We did," Charles allows, "but it wouldn't be the same. We went to some museums and came home. We wouldn't be able to go on a date, not really. Not the way I'd like to, at least." He steels himself for more teasing, but Raven just looks thoughtful.

"You could come here again," she suggests after a moment. "I'm sure I can find somewhere else to be and you can be as mushy as you want. Make him dinner and give him a present and you'll have all night together." She waggles her eyebrows on that last part, but doesn't push any further, and Charles tentatively allows himself to think about it. It could be a surprise. He could prepare everything in advance, maybe even ask the housekeeper for some tips and cook dinner himself. They can dance again, or play chess, or maybe watch a movie on television.

And they'd have all night together. All night to do all the things Charles has been thinking about constantly for months. One thing in particular, maybe, that he didn't feel ready to do before, that first time, but maybe....

He bounces forward on the bed to hug Raven tightly, hopefully hiding his blush.

"That's a brilliant idea!" he says. "We could have the whole--"

And then his mind cycles back around to their previous conversation and he pauses.

"Mother," he says. "I would need to--I couldn't do all that if Mother was still in the house."

"So get rid of her," Raven says.

"I can't just...get rid of her," he says. "I can't just...tell her to go do something else."

"Of course you can," Raven says. "I've seen you do it before."

Charles shakes his head. He's still holding her hands in his, where he grasped them during their embrace, and he tightens his grip as he speaks. "That was different." Using his power to tell Cain to leave him and Raven alone had been necessary, that last year before he enlisted. But just interfering with people's minds for his own convenience... that's something else entirely. "It wouldn't be right."

Raven looks disappointed, though it’s nothing to what Charles is feeling. "It's such a perfect idea otherwise, though. Maybe you could just make her--I don't know, not notice? Keep her on the other side of the house?"

"No," Charles says, "that won't work." Even if Charles could stand it, Erik would never agree. He makes a decision. "I'll just have to talk to her, I guess."

The face that Raven makes in response is not very unlike the face she made the time Charles made her brownies and forgot to add the sugar. "Well, good luck with that," she says, not bothering to keep the skepticism out of her voice.

"I'll think of something," Charles says, and he means it utterly. He thinks about Erik down in New Jersey, and how excited he'll be when he comes home and finds out what Charles has planned for them. His eyes will go bright, and his mouth will quirk in that smile that's not really a smile, and if they're alone Charles will get a kiss, but even if they’re not, he'll at least feel that wave of affection and lust from Erik's mind that means he's thinking about it, and wants Charles to know it.

"Ugh," Raven says, tearing her hands away at last, "I'm not the telepath, but I can still tell you're being gross."

Charles covers his face with his hands and flops back down on the bed.

"Sorry, sorry!" Charles says. "Talk to me about Buddy, then. I suppose, given the number of costumes you've bought, you're not going in matching outfits, then?"

"Oh, ew," Raven says, though he can tell she's pleased that the conversation has come back around to her. "We've only been going together for a few weeks. It's not like I'm going to marry him or anything. Plus, he has a terrible sense of style. He said he's just going to go as Roy Rogers because that's what he does every year. Can you believe it? The whole point of Halloween is to dress up and experiment and have fun, not do the same boring old thing."

"Well," Charles says, "knowing you and your charming wiles, I'm sure you can talk him into something else if you really put your mind to it."

Raven sticks her tongue out at him and jumps off the bed, skipping back to the closet.

"Anyway, tell me what you think of these dresses, would you?"

"Of course," Charles says, shifting into a more comfortable position on the bed and turning his attention to Raven's wardrobe.

Well, most of his attention. He can't stop a tiny part of his brain from mulling over ways to get his mother out of the house for Erik's birthday.

He can't stop another part of his brain from shivering with anticipation at the thought of another evening alone with Erik, with plenty of time to explore all of the fantasies that have been flooding his mind for the past few weeks.

***

Charles spends Saturday morning and afternoon helping Raven make a final costume decision and then watching her get ready for the party. She leaves as the sun is setting, heading off to Carol's to do some last minute prepping with the other girls before they meet their dates for the party. Charles waves her off and then settles into the study where a fire is already warming the room and a book is waiting for him.

Predictably, these days, the book can't hold his attention for long.

He gives up after a chapter or two, setting it aside on the end table, stretching out his legs and staring into the fireplace. He doesn't want to read; he doesn't want to work on his homework, or his application essay; he doesn't want to watch Westerns on TV. Charles has never been the sort of person who gets bored, or has trouble occupying his time. He's not used to this.

Maybe he should have gone to the party, after all. It would have been a distraction, at least. He likes bobbing for apples and ghost stories and silly party games. And being in a crowd can be welcome, sometimes, all those other minds to distract him when his own thoughts keep running over and over the same tracks.

It's funny, in a way. Raven might make fun of him for how much he talks about Erik, but it's a good thing she doesn't know just how much of the time Charles is holding back, or he'd never hear the end of it.

Charles intends to stay up until Raven gets home safe, but he drifts off on the couch at some point, and it's Raven who shakes him awake with a hand on his shoulder. 

"Go to bed, loser," she says softly, voice full of affection. The room is dim, cool now that the fire's gone out.

He rubs his face with the back of his hand and yawns. "It's comfy here."

"Liar." Raven offers him a hand and he takes it, pulling himself up off the couch. Raven smells like sugar and her hair is a mess. Charles thinks she must have had a good time. 

He follows her down the hall to their bedrooms, but by the time he's changed into his pajamas and turned down his bed, he finds he's not a bit sleepy anymore.

Charles wonders, reaching out his mind--and yes. Mother is awake, too, and upright, smoking in the music room. 

He hasn't had time to talk to Erik about his plan yet. He doesn't really have a plan besides the thought that another weekend alone together would be wonderful and a vague fantasy about dinner and dancing and bed. He has no idea what he's actually going to say to his mother once he talks to her. It's technically her house and he has no right to kick her out. He can't be upfront about it and he doesn't know that he can make up a convincing lie. He should really go back to bed and talk to her when he's more prepared.

He lets the excuses pile up, but he knows the truth: the times when his mother is awake and sober are scarcer and scarcer these days and if he puts it off, he'll keep doing it until it's too late.

Charles puts on his robe and slippers and returns to the hallway. The light is still on under Raven's door, so at least if it all goes to hell he'll have someone to talk to. He still doesn't have a plan--no matter what Raven says, he can't simply change her mind--but he clings to his resolution and tries to keep his shoulders back and his posture perfect as he heads downstairs.

The music room is in the other wing of the house, the wing that his mother haunts these days. For all that they're in the same house, it's more like they're simply tenants in the same building. She doesn't venture downstairs and she certainly doesn't venture to this side of the house, where Raven and Charles' rooms are situated along with the library and his father's study and the den they've turned into their favorite gathering place.

He pauses outside of the study before proceeding through to the foyer and then up towards the music room. They have a bookkeeper and a lawyer who handle most of their mail and expenses and other administrivia, but Charles collects the mail that comes to the house, including flyers and calendars for all of the social and charitable groups that his mother belongs to. There are always parties and fundraisers and galas and events. His mother picks and chooses the few things she deems worthy of her presence, mostly via phone calls from the few social acquaintances she still has left. Still, Charles keeps everything, just in case, even though it makes Raven angry every time she sees his carefully labeled and organized files.

"It's not like she's going to come downstairs and see what a good job you've done and pat you on the back!" she screamed at him after one particularly gruesome fight not long after their mother failed to appear at the school for Raven's junior high graduation. "She doesn't _care_ and one day you'll realize that and stop trying to be good enough for her to love you!"

It had hurt. It still hurts, if only because a part of Charles can see the truth in it. Today, though, he's grateful for his compulsion to keep all of his mother's mail, because he can slip into the study and open up the latest folder, his eyes skimming over the calendars for events planned the weekend of Erik's birthday.

His mother wasn't always like this. She used to care about things, and Charles still knows what those things were. He still knows what buttons to press to get her attention. He still knows how to twist things to his advantage. He hasn't had to use those skills in years, not since Kurt was around and his mother's drinking problem was more a crutch than a sedative, but they're still there.

Armed with the beginning of a plan, he steels himself again and journeys up to the music room. 

His mother is still awake when he reaches the door, still more or less sober, and still sitting alone and smoking. He knocks gently on the door before entering, unsure of the welcome he should expect.

"Yes?" he hears her call from inside, and takes that as permission to enter. "Oh," she says once she sees him, turning away from the window she was gazing out of. "It's you. I imagined you'd be the help."

"No, Mother," Charles says. "It's Saturday. Also, it's late."

"I suppose you're right," his mother says, and goes back to staring out the window.

It's nearly midnight, and a new moon besides. Even during the day, the view would be nothing but the endless lawn. There's nothing here to justify his mother's focus.

She hasn't turned the lights on overhead, but there are half a dozen lamps on throughout the large room, giving everything a warm, soft glow, making it all look much more attractive than Charles remembers it being. He closes the door behind him and makes his way across the hardwood floors. He passes the piano on his way to her, and he can't help but notice that the lid to the keys is open, and that there's sheet music arranged. Charles wonders if she was playing earlier. He can't quite imagine it.

Charles stops a few feet away from where she's standing at the window. He's close enough to faintly smell her perfume; the scent of lilacs is ingrained in his memory with her. It has been from the time he was very small, and somehow he doubts he will ever be able to smell the flower without thinking of her, even when he's an old man.

She turns toward him as he stops. He can feel the burst of surprise from her that he's still there, that he hadn't left as soon she spoke. None of it shows on her face, which is as perfectly composed as ever.

She was gorgeous when she was younger; everyone has always said so. When she was Charles' age, people would stop her in the street to tell her she should be in pictures. She's still a striking woman now.

It hurts a little to look at her, an ache somewhere deep in Charles' chest.

She's gazing at him now, blue eyes cool and distant and polite while she waits for Charles to speak.

Charles clears his throat, burying the awkwardness and longing deep down where it won't get in the way of what he wants to do. "I didn't know if you'd seen this," he says, holding out the invitation to her. It's a lie, since he knows very well she doesn't look at any of the mail at all, but as lies go it's white and harmless.

She has to set down her cigarette in the ashtray on the windowsill--her other hand is occupied by a glass of red wine, still almost full--to take it from him in two delicate fingertips and begin to skim the calligraphy.

"Friends of Civic Opera autumn charity dinner," she reads aloud.

"It came in the mail," Charles says, unnecessarily. "And I know you're a member of the women's auxiliary board and how important the opera has been to you." Music is one of the few things that still gets his mother out of the house. It's been a staple of her social calendar since Charles was a boy, bundled into stiff formal clothes and forced to sit through Puccini and Verdi and Rossini when he was far too young to understand what he was seeing. It was opera that Kurt used to lure her out of her mourning after Charles' father's death and it's one of the few things that captures her attention now.

She frowns, the expression still beautiful and soft. He skims her mind, anxious for a reaction, anxious for this to work. She's thinking about how it's a minor event, how the performance is a lesser work and the performers are third tier at best. She's thinking about how much work it is to get out of the house and how something so inconsequential is rarely worth it when she can listen to more talented performers sing better compositions on the record player in this very room.

He might not have it in him to change her mind, to bend her actions to his will, but he's not above lying.

"And I just remembered getting it in the mail since Mrs. DuPont called earlier and asked if you'd be attending," he adds, keeping his face neutral. Mrs. DuPont is is president of the women's auxiliary board and his mother's relationship with her is strange and tumultuous. He knows she doesn't like Mrs. DuPont much, but she goes out of her way to spend time with her and be kind to her. 

His mother's frown deepens as she considers the invitation.

"Well, why didn't you inform me that she called, then?" she asks.

"It was only this evening," Charles says. "You were asleep. I wrote down the message." Raven's told him time and again that the trick to a good lie is keeping it simple and not embellishing it. Charles isn't very good at lying, but it's not as if his mother will even remember the details of this conversation in the morning, not if she's drinking again this late.

"Hm," she says. She looks up at him, her eyes assessing, and then down at the invitation again. "This always runs so late."

"If you wanted to stay in the flat in Manhattan, I'm sure Raven and I could fend for ourselves." She looks up at him again, and he wonders if he's said too much. He doesn't know that his mother has ever worried about them before when spending the night elsewhere. She's certainly never expressed that worry to them, informing them of her plans, sometimes minutes before she's set to leave, without bothering to ask if they'll be able to get by on their own. 

He holds his breath, but she looks away again.

"If Helen expects me to be there, I suppose it's best to attend," she finally says. She puts the invitation down on the end table and returns her attention to the window. 

"I'll leave a note for Mrs. Evans to send out your RSVP on Monday morning," Charles says. 

She nods, without looking toward him. "Tell her to contact Mr. Wolf as well. If I'm going all the way into the city again, I might as well take the furs out of storage while I'm there. It's practically winter already." She takes a long sip of her wine, her throat moving as she swallows. 

There's nothing else for Charles to say--better to quit while he's ahead, before she has a chance to change her mind--and so he turns to leave, biting his lip to keep in the grin that threatens to expand across his face. 

He's at the door when she calls out to him, in her soft even voice.

"Charles."

Charles spins around on his heels, surprised and flustered. "Mother?"

She's lit her cigarette again, and she takes a puff before she speaks again. "Your birthday's in winter," she says, which is true; he was born in early February. "We'll need to talk to the lawyers at some point before then. Make sure everything is how it should be for your trust." 

He nods. "I'll make a note of that as well, shall I?"

"Do," she says. She turns toward him again, and for a moment her gaze is fixed, alert and intelligent, and he thinks it's the first time in a very long time she's actually _seeing_ him when she looks at him--but then it's gone as quickly as it came, and back her eyes go to the damned rotten window. "Eighteen is too young," she says in a vague tone, as if she were discussing the weather. "Too young for anything. I told Brian he should make it twenty-one, but he never listened to me."

Charles waits a moment, in case there's more, but when he checks her mind she's already dismissed him, finished with him as if he were never there. He flees the music room, and down the hallways, until he's back in his and Raven's wing of the house. 

Raven's light is still on, but he doesn't really feel like talking anymore. He pads silently past her door and into his own room. 

When he crawls into bed, he presses his face against the pillow. Just a few weeks ago, he shared it with Erik; and now, in not too long, they'll share it again. He pushes away all thoughts of his mother, and concentrates on that instead, on the victory he's won, and falls asleep trying to remember the exact nuances of Erik's resting body against his own. 

***

Mother doesn't make an appearance on Sunday, which is for the best. He and Raven make popcorn and watch television and Raven gives him a detailed description of the party--what everyone was wearing, who they were with, the games, the food, and the decorations. She shows him the little metal airplane she pulled out of the fortune telling cake, pleased to have avoided all of the charms that forecast a quick marriage and large family in favor of something that tells her to follow her dreams.

It's funny--it's not something that they've ever talked about, getting married and having families. Charles has avoided the topic since he discovered the nature of his feelings for Erik, but even Raven, as eager as she is to meet and flirt with boys, has never spoke of marriage or children, just of her dreams of seeing the world. He wonders if he should ask her, or if she has her own reasons for keeping her future plans to herself.

After Raven is done detailing the intricacies of the party, Charles allows himself to break the news of Mother's opera trip on Erik's birthday. She gasps and cheers and hugs him, promising again to spend the night with Carol or Susie or one of the other girls from school.

"And now you have a week or two to plan the perfect romantic night!" she exclaims and Charles smiles and nods and allows her to change the subject, half listening as she talks about the possibility of a double date with Carol and her boyfriend.

Charles is already making plans, but they're not plans he's about to share with his baby sister. They're hardly plans he feels comfortable thinking about while she's in the room, but he can't stop his mind from wandering in that direction.

He knows there are dozens of ways for men to have sex, lots that they haven't tried yet. There are many new things they can do, but there's one he can't stop thinking about. It felt so good to have Erik's fingers inside of him, and the thought of Erik's prick....

It's as frightening as it is exciting. Erik is so _big_ and that's intimidating, despite all of Charles' thrilling fantasies about it. He wants it, more than he wants anything else right now, and he thinks Erik does too. There are other things he wants to try--the reverse, for one thing--but this is what he thinks about the most.

It would be a good birthday present, wouldn't it? With so much time to get used to the idea and get supplies, he'd be more prepared than he was the last time, he'd be _ready_.

He tries to force his mind back to Raven's conversation and manages to focus on her for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, until he's able to escape to the privacy of his room to do some reading and some daydreaming and, finally, touch himself before drifting off to sleep.

***

Monday morning, his spirits are high and he's eager to get to school, to see Erik after a weekend apart with this new surprise to spring on him. He rides his bike slightly ahead of Raven, slowing every time he gets too far ahead and she begins to grumble good-naturedly, but once they're in sight of the school, he can't help but race forward, outpacing her and slowing to a stop in front of the bike rack, his eyes already on Erik, slouching against the far wall as he does every day.

He fumbles with the bike lock for a moment. By the time he finally manages to secure it, Erik is slipping his novel back into his bookbag and looking faintly amused at Charles' expense. 

Charles feels a slight contraction of the metal of his belt and the zipper of his jacket, a wordless _hello there you are I missed you_ from Erik's powers as he comes closer. He can't help but smile, broad and pleased, as he settles himself beside Erik, close enough to let their shoulders touch.

"Good morning," Charles says. "How was your weekend?"

"Fine," Erik says. "Boring." He flashes Charles a brief wry smile, all teeth, for barely a second before he continues, "A lot of listening to old ladies gossip about people I never met, in a language I understand but don't speak. But my mother had a wonderful time, which is what is important."

"Good. That's good."

"How was yours?" Erik says. The way Charles is holding his bag hides his forearm from view, and Erik takes advantage of it, brushing his fingertips lightly across Charles' sleeve where no one can see. It's almost a tease, but it's also just a pleasure in and of itself, the simple touch that Charles leans into.

"It was good," Charles says, and then, realizing he's abusing the word, adds, "Great, really. I have such exciting news."

"What kind of news?"

It's easier to say it mentally. _I've figured out how to get the house to myself again. We can have the whole night alone together again! And it's your birthday, so even your mother won't think it's strange..._

Erik cycles through emotions, though his face hardly changes. Shock, then excitement, then a firm wariness. 

_How did you manage that?_ Erik asks him.

 _It was Raven's idea,_ Charles concedes. _She's going to spend the night of your birthday with one of her girlfriends and there's an event in the city that I nudged my mother into attending overnight._

 _'Nudged?'_ Erik asks. 

There's more approval in that response than Charles is comfortable with, so he quickly adds, _No, not--no, I just reminded her of the event and told a fib that one of the other women on the board had called to ask if she was attending. But, anyway, that gives us the whole weekend alone._

Erik is quiet for a moment, both verbally and mentally, his mind churning away just beneath the surface thoughts that Charles is comfortable with inhabiting. The only sign of his intense concentration is the way he briefly sucks his lower lip.

 _My mother might ask questions,_ he finally says.

 _Last year for my birthday we went into the city alone for the whole weekend,_ Charles reminds him. _She was okay with that. We can tell her the same thing, or that we're going camping or having a party or...something. Last year for your birthday we did that midnight movie double feature and we were out until the middle of the night and she was fine with it._

He hopes he doesn't sound too desperate, but he can't modulate the tenor of his thoughts the way he can with his voice. This was such a brilliant plan--they have to go through with it and he _knows_ Mrs. Lehnsherr won't think anything about it is peculiar.

Erik is silent again, his thoughts his own. Charles has to remind himself to push back the instinct of irritation and impatience that he can't help but feel at Erik's stubbornness and paranoia. Erik wants this just as much as Charles does; Charles is as certain of that as he is of anything in his life. Shouldn't that make this easier?

But Erik has never responded well to pushing, so Charles holds himself back, again, and waits.

The ring of the first bell interrupts their conference, shrill and loud and as unwelcome as it's ever been. Erik looks and feels intensely annoyed, as if he takes the rudeness of the inanimate object personally.

Charles sighs, throwing his bag back over his shoulder. "Think about it, Erik, and we can talk at lunch. It's just... it seems so perfect, you know?"

Erik nods. "I will." He reaches out and squeezes Charles' bicep once, firmly, projecting the brief thought of a kiss, before they turn and head towards their different homerooms.

The morning goes by quicker than Charles would have expected, though by the time lunch comes he still feels made of nerves. By unspoken agreement, he and Erik take their lunches out to the tables outside behind the cafeteria. It's crowded out here when it's warm, but fall is so advanced now that it's cool enough for most of the kids to stay inside, except maybe to hang out in the smoking area. The smokers are on the far side of the patio from the table that he and Erik settle into.

"Let's do it," Erik blurts out as soon as they've sat down, before Charles has even had a chance to finish unpacking his lunch.

He almost drops his sandwich.

"Really?" he asks before he can help himself, but Erik just nods quickly. 

"I--" Erik stops, then glances over Charles' shoulder at three of their classmates pulling out their cigarettes. _I'm sure my mother won't have a problem with it,_ he continues privately. _You're right about last year, and about your birthday too. Plus, she said she owed me a weekend off from chores for driving down to Jersey with her._

 _Fantastic!_ Charles says. He knows he's smiling dopily at Erik across the table, lunch nearly forgotten until Erik nudges his foot under the table and nods at the sandwich hanging from his hands, glancing again at the kids smoking across the way.

Erik always seems hyperaware of the people around them and what they might be thinking, not just at school, but everywhere they are. It's strange, but Charles figures he should be grateful, even if they're not really doing anything wrong or obvious.

 _So, do you have anything planned?_ Erik asks as he methodically begins to eat his own lunch, cutting his apple into bits hands free with a pocket knife as he eats his sandwich.

Charles feels his ears go red and he almost chokes, but manages to swallow just in time.

 _I've had some thoughts,_ he admits. _It might be best to discuss them after school._ Thinking about those things now, when they have half the day to get through still, is just asking for trouble.

"Oh," Erik says out loud. The pocket knife pauses, trembling for a moment in mid-air before Erik continues his chopping. Erik never quite flushes the way Charles always seems to. A little color high up on his cheeks, maybe, but mostly he just looks even more serious and thoughtful as he chews.

Charles pulls back his telepathy a little from the level he usually leaves it at around Erik. Sensing Erik's thoughts about the subject right now is just as bad as actually discussing it would be. Worse, in some ways, because thoughts are always more real to Charles than words, more personal and more honest and more unavoidable. 

"So that was the most exciting part of my weekend, arranging that," Charles says, between bites of his sandwich. "Otherwise it was rather mundane. Raven went to Joanie's Halloween bash--along half the school, so far as I can tell--so I spent Friday night and most of Saturday helping her pick out a costume."

"You'd think she's get tired of it," Erik says, unexpectedly, and when Charles looks at him questioningly he shrugs. "She's pretty much in costume every day, isn't she?"

Charles frowns. "I don't think she thinks of it like that."

"Obviously," Erik says. He picks up his milk carton, gulping down the entire portion in a single swallow. Charles looks down at his own food, rather than watch his throat, or the way he wipes the drop of milk away from his mouth with the back of his hand afterward. "It sounds like you still have me beat for excitement, anyway. I spent most of the weekend hiding in the backyard reading or playing with Hanna's dog."

Charles doesn't think his face changes at that, but Erik sees _something_ that makes him chuckle. "She was a sweetheart, Charles. Not even _you_ could dislike her."

"I'm just not a dog person," Charles says haughtily. "There's nothing wrong with that." Dogs smell. They're noisy and loud and have no concept of personal space. And their minds are just ... blank. Charles doesn't understand the appeal at all.

Erik shakes his head. "You're so weird," he says, but the corner of his mouth is quirked up, just a little.

They finish their lunch, turning the topic further away from Erik's birthday--talking about classes and homework and their schoolmates. When the bell rings, they gather up their bags and head in for their afternoon classes.

They walk home from school together as usual, still idly discussing their last classes and their homework. Charles tries to keep his mind on the conversation, but as soon as they're in Erik's house with the door closed behind them, he steps quickly forward to kiss Erik, nearly before he's turned all the way around.

Erik kisses him back, holding him by the shoulders. When they break apart, he's slightly perplexed, but smiling.

"What was that?" he asks.

"A kiss, obviously," Charles says, but before Erik can roll his eyes, Charles adds, "I haven't seen you all weekend, which is unacceptable."

"Well," Erik says. "Let's at least get back into my room."

They shed their bags and coats on Erik's floor and Charles pushes Erik onto the bed and climbs on after him before he can object. They have a lot of homework tonight, and while none of it is difficult, exactly, he knows they probably shouldn't do this for long. But after a weekend apart, a weekend spent thinking up plans for Erik's birthday, he can't help himself. He'll take what he can manage to get before Erik's more refined work ethic takes over and forces them back to their books.

Erik chokes out a laugh as Charles guides his shoulders down to the mattress, but his hands are just as eager and greedy, slipping under Charles' sweater to palm his back and waist. "I missed you too," Erik says between kisses, soft as a breath between them, like a secret or a confession, something that can't be said too loud without ruining it. He nudges Charles back and they roll over together, a little awkwardly on the small bed, until Charles is the one on his back, and Erik is fitted between his legs, heavy and solid and firm above him.

Sometimes Charles feels like he has to be in control of himself all the time; that he's always holding back, one way or another. He's always, always aware of his telepathy. He can't let it show in school how smart he is without looking like a show-off. He can't let anybody know about him and Erik, except Raven, but even with her, he can't talk about it _too_ much. 

He wants so much it feels like his skin is going to burst, sometimes. 

So it feels amazing to let go, now, to just sink into this and for a few glorious minutes, not worry about anything. Erik gets Charles' button undone and his zipper down using just his powers, but he has to stop touching Charles' face to get a hand between them to touch his prick. The noise Charles makes sounds loud and strange to his own ears.

"Shhh," Erik says between kisses, "shh," but he doesn't sound scared or freaked out, more like he's trying to soothe, and even when Charles pulls his hair too hard he doesn't stop, and everything Charles feels of his mind seems just as turned-on as Charles is.

Charles manages to turn his head to the side and muffle his moan into the pillow when he comes. When he opens his eyes again and looks up, Erik is staring down at him with wide, dilated eyes, holding himself perfectly still, braced above him.

"Do you want to know what I planned for the weekend?" Charles says. "Or do you want your birthday present to be a surprise?"

Erik doesn't respond. Or, rather, he responds by leaning down and kissing Charles, holding Charles' face between his hands. Charles laughs against Erik's mouth, breathless, and fumbles to open Erik's pants.

They shift again on the small bed so they're lying side by side, facing each other. Charles finally manages to slide his hand into Erik's boxers and get a hand around his prick. He can't help shivering and sighing when Erik pulls away to gasp. 

"You're so big," he says, unable to keep the quiver of admiration out of his voice.

"Don't stop," Erik murmurs, and Charles focuses, stroking Erik quickly, his grip firm and tight, just the way he knows Erik likes it, confident now after doing this together over the past few weeks. Erik's breath starts to come short, the pressure of his grip on Charles tighter, and Charles can track his reactions right up until Erik's coming too, his muscles going taut and tight and then releasing all together once he's come.

They breathe hard in each other's shared space on the pillow, Erik still shaking. It takes them a few minutes to calm, smiling at each other in silence. They really should get back to their homework, but it feels like it's been ages since they last saw each other, and right now, Charles isn't in a rush to be anywhere else.

"So," he finally asks. "Do you want to know, or do you want it to be a surprise?"

Erik is rarely patient, so Charles isn't surprised when he says, "Tell me."

Charles can feel his stomach fluttering in anticipation.

"Well," he says, "I haven't worked out all the details yet, but I thought--well, I thought that we could...you know." He resists the urge to giggle nervously. "I thought maybe you could...um." He swallows. "I want you to fuck me. I want--I thought you could...penetrate me."

Charles can hear the way Erik's breath catches suddenly in his throat, and Erik's eyes shut tight for a moment--Charles barely has the sensation of a flash of bright, obscene images before Erik manages to pack them away below the surface again. Even more than the hints of the content he gets, it's the texture of the thoughts that sends a thrill down Charles' spine; well-worn, creased like a piece of paper that's been folded and unfolded again and again. Erik has been thinking about these things, too. Thinking about them a _lot_. Touching himself to them, Charles expects, and hopes.

Charles reaches out to lace their fingers together, sticky and messy as they still are. Erik squeezes back tightly as he opens his eyes, meeting Charles' own with a fixed, searching gaze.

"Yeah?" Erik whispers.

"Yes," Charles says, and once again he can't control his face, the way he wants to beam and laugh and who knows what else, but that's all right, too, because Erik just kisses him again.

They do manage to get out of bed, not too much later, put themselves back together to respectability and get to work on the homework that is their entire supposed purpose for being here. They're still working through it when Mrs. Lehnsherr gets home, barely finishing up by the time she comes to the room to tell Erik it's time to set the table.

Charles carefully puts his books away. When he rises to his feet and throws his bag over his shoulder, Mrs. Lehnsherr is still standing in the doorway, giving him a thoughtful look.

"Will you stay for dinner with us tonight, Charles?" she asks, in her soft voice, still accented after all these years.

He shakes his head. "I can't. Raven's waiting for me at home, you know."

Mrs. Lehnsherr nods. "You are a good brother. A good boy." It sounds like a pronouncement, somehow. "You know, Charles, I am very proud of you. I'm glad Erik has such a friend."

Charles can tell he must be red all over. He doesn't know where to look or what to say, but finally he manages a stiff, "I--thank you."

Mrs. Lehnsherr nods, and then she finally moves out of the doorway, and Charles can make his escape. He doesn't even pause to stop by the kitchen and say goodbye to Erik--he'll have to make it up to him tomorrow. But Erik would see how agitated he is, and he'd need to know the reason, and Charles doesn't even know how to explain it to himself, even though he spends the entire bike ride home thinking it over.

***

The rest of the week drags by, moreso now that Charles has something to look forward to. School seems to take forever, and he has to work harder than ever to force himself to look studious and attentive as the teachers talk about concepts and skills he's long since mastered. With Raven beginning to stay out more in the evenings, spending time with friends and her own boyfriend, even the hours between dinner and bed are crawling forward. The only time that moves quickly at all is the time he spends with Erik, which is always over too quickly.

He puts much of his mental energy into planning Erik's birthday weekend--food, activities, what supplies they'll need. The lotion worked well enough for fingers, but Charles can't help but think that for something so much bigger they'll need more. He's been eyeing the petroleum jelly that Raven keeps in her make-up case. He wonders if she'd notice if he took it? She probably would, and she'd probably be able to figure out why, if he needed it so badly, he couldn't ask her. He could always buy his own--it's not illicit, there are perfectly acceptable reasons for buying it. When he was younger, his nanny used to slather it all over his face in the winter when the sharp, cold winds chapped his skin. 

The other issue lingering in his mind is the subject of an actual present for Erik. While the weekend will be a present in and of itself, while that would have been enough in years past, now that Erik is more than his best friend, he can't help but think he should give him more of a present.

The problem is, Erik absolutely won't accept anything.

Oh, sure, he'll take little things--a book, a record, a cake. Raven has knit him scarfs and hats, but that's the extent of it. For Erik, there's a very particular line between acceptable and extravagant, and he won't accept the latter, even though of course Charles can afford it. He wants to think that things are different now, that being boyfriends will make Erik more willing to accept tokens of Charles' affection, but he has a bad feeling that it's more likely the opposite will be true--Erik will become even more strict about what is and isn't an acceptable present.

He has to do something, though. He wants to. He'd feel like a heel if he didn't give Erik a present on his birthday.

He's still thinking about it Friday afternoon when he gets home from Erik's, having turned down another dinner invitation even though he knows Raven is going out with Carol tonight. He just can't stomach sitting through dinner being assaulted by Mrs. Lehnsherr's achingly kind and sympathetic thoughts. He's surprised, then, to find Raven sitting at the counter in the kitchen when he gets home.

"Carol's little sister is sick, so she has to stay home," she says by way of explanation. "I thought--maybe you and I could go into town and get dinner there? We haven't gone out in a while."

It's true. Between Charles' need to be around Erik constantly and Raven's packed new social life, they've hardly seen each other outside of the house and school. They used to walk into town together every weekend, even if it was just to stop by the sweet shop and get away from Kurt and Cain and Mother for a few hours.

"Okay," he says. "You can help me think up a gift for Erik."

"Gifts and Erik don't always go so well together," Raven reminds him lightly. "But okay--challenge accepted!"

Charles drives them into town and they eat first, taking a corner table in the bustling diner. Raven spends dinner giving Charles updates on her friends and Charles consciously keeps track of how much he talks about Erik, turning the conversation around to college applications when it becomes clear he's been talking for too long.

"Daddy went to Harvard," Raven says after Charles sketches out the pros and cons of the schools he's applying to.

"He did," Charles allows. "And I've wanted to go there since I was a boy. They're still wary of admitting mutants, but I'm all but guaranteed a slot between being legacy, my grades, and my extracurriculars."

"Then that's where you should go," Raven says. "Otherwise, you'll second guess yourself forever." Charles opens his mouth to respond, but Raven rolls right over him, holding up a hand to silence him. "I mean it. I know all that's holding you back is Erik, and, in the scheme of things, Boston is hardly far from here at all. Even if you go to Columbia or Princeton or Yale, you'll still be living on campus and going to classes, so it's not like you'd get any more time with him than you would at Harvard. Plus, Erik might have his own plans. Who knows where he'll end up?"

His first instinct is to argue with her, but... it's not as though anything she's saying is untrue. And Charles knows it, even though it makes his food sit heavy and leaden in his stomach to think about it, the life Erik might make for himself that doesn't include Charles at all.

He can't talk about that, though, not even to Raven. Instead he says, "Well, what about you?"

Raven raises her eyebrow. "What, me a co-ed? Following in Sharon's footsteps and putting in a year at Vassar towards my MRS degree? Ugh, no, thank you." She makes a face, punctuating her sentence with a slurp of her shake.

"I didn't mean that, exactly," Charles says. He knows Raven's never really been very interested in school, even though she's quite intelligent, and he thinks she could easily be at the top of her class if she put her mind to it. It's never been her priority. "I was just thinking about you all alone in the house." Except for Mother, of course, but she doesn't really make Raven any less alone. "You could always come to Boston or wherever with me, you know."

Raven sets down her burger on her plate and gives him a long look he can't quite read. "Oh, Charles. No. I want to stay here. My life is here, and all my friends."

It's nothing more or less than what Charles expected her to say, and he smiles at her. "I know," he says. "Just keep in mind, it's a standing offer."

After they finish their dinner, they head out to the row of shops along the main road. Charles still isn't sure exactly what he's looking for--as Raven pointed out last week, it's not as if he could just pick out a nice piece of jewelry for Erik, even if Erik would accept something more expensive. Still, he has to believe he'll know the right thing when he sees it. 

And as it happens, he does.

They're browsing through the third store when Charles spots it, under the glass counter near the front. It's a pocket knife, but it has nothing in common with the cheap, ugly blades some of their classmates carry. It's silver, just a tiny bit of design around the edges: spare metal, all elegance and clean, sharp lines. Utility, too; something with a _purpose_.

Erik would love it.

He waves to get the salesman's attention, and then, when the man comes over, taps softly on the glass. "Could I get this engraved?"

On the way home, Raven says, "I suppose he _might_ accept it. Don't let him know how much it costs, of course."

"If he won't take it," Charles says, "I'll keep it for myself."

"And that won't seem strange at all, you carrying around a pocket knife with Erik's initials engraved on it," Raven says, but there's a certain amount of kindness in her voice that takes the sting out of it, a sort of kindness he wouldn't accept from anyone else. Almost like pity--or, no, more like empathy.

"It will be there if he needs it," Charles says, staring out into the road as he navigates the car through the darkness. _Because I'll be there if he needs anything_ , remains unspoken. Charles is afraid that if he speaks it out loud, he'll have to confront its fragility. College is looming, and with it change on a level he hasn't experienced since his father died and Kurt and Cain moved into the house. His whole life is going to be different, and just when he feels like it's finally on track to being everything he's ever wanted.

He's quiet the rest of the way back, his pensive mood weighing heavily on the car, unbreakable even once Raven turns on the radio and begins to sing quietly along with the pop songs that start playing from the speakers. When they get back to the house, Raven stops him before he can disappear to his room to put away Erik's present and change for bed.

"Cheer up, would you?" she says. She kisses him on the cheek. "You're about to leave high school forever, you have a handsome boyfriend, and enough money to tell Harvard to stuff it and whisk Erik away to Europe to live off of your trust fund on some private island."

Charles allows himself the fantasy for a moment and smiles. He and Erik, alone somewhere together, somewhere with beautiful weather and no one else around for miles, somewhere they could be themselves without worrying about the rest of the world. Erik lying with him on a beach in just his swimming trunks. All the time in the world to do whatever they want without having to sneak around and make deals with Mother and Raven.

For all that he knows it's a fantasy, it's still good enough to keep a smile on his face as he hugs Raven goodnight and heads up to bed.

***

The next week is a little better than the one before, even if time still seems to be moving much too slowly. He spends most of Saturday at Erik's house, in the workshop in the garage Erik that uses to practice his powers. With Mrs. Lehnsherr home, just a few rooms away, everything they do stays innocent, of course. But there's something calming and centering about it, watching Erik as he works, sometimes chiming in to give advice and sometimes just sitting back and watching the planes of his face as he concentrates and listening to the patter of the rain on the roof above.

It's cozy. After all, Charles loved Erik long before he ever thought about kissing him.

Sunday he goes shopping on his own, without Raven. If he blushes when he buys the petroleum jelly, he confirms that the shopgirl is too bored to even notice him. Besides, it's mixed in with his other purchases--mostly food for the meal that, after careful interrogation of the housekeeper and Raven (with her required junior high home economics course under her belt), Charles has determined he should be able to manage to prepare on his own. Chops to go under the broiler, potatoes to cook in their jackets in the oven, peas from a tin, cake from a mix.

It's the thought that counts, Charles figures. And he has a lot of thoughts.

There's no school on Wednesday for Veterans Day. Charles spends the day playing checkers and Monopoly with Raven in the den. Erik is busy--it's one of the two days every year, along with her wedding anniversary in the spring, that Mrs. Lehnsherr takes Erik out to visit his father's grave. Erik's dad died in the war, when Erik was still a tiny baby. Charles doubts that Erik has any memories of him, but then, his father is one of the topics he's never heard Erik mention at all.

And then, finally, it's Friday.

"I'm going straight to Carol's after school, so if you mess up dinner, you can call me there," Raven reminds him. She's reminded him a dozen times already, and while he appreciates her willingness to help, he's starting to bristle at her apparent appraisal of his cooking skills.

"I know, I know," Charles says. "I'm sure everything will be fine."

It's not the food, after all, that he's necessarily worried about. Mrs. Evans has already said she'd leave some food in the refrigerator "just in case," and he doesn't believe Erik would throw him over just because he ruined dinner. He's more concerned about what he imagines is going to come after it.

Because he's spent a lot of time imagining that. He's tried not to, tried to remind himself over and over that it'll be fine, it'll be good, and there's nothing to be nervous about. Their first time was perfect and this will be perfect too. It's not like he's a virgin any longer--that should have been what he was afraid of, not this.

And he's not afraid, not exactly. He's definitely excited. He's definitely been dreaming about this for longer than he dare admit to anyone except Erik. But he wants it to be special, to be as good as his fantasies, and what if it's not? Sure, Erik's fingers felt good in there and the fantasies he's seen, the books he's read, they make it seem like it will feel just as good with his prick, even better. Sure, he's been practicing with his own hands, twisting the get the angle right and desperate for more, but how much more? Erik is really big and--

He still wants it, though, and that's what he doesn't understand, how something he wants this badly, something that makes him this excited and aroused, could make him so nervous and frightened at the same time.

It will be fine, though. He knows it. He'll be with Erik, and that's what counts.

***

After school, he meets Erik at his locker, as usual, even though they're not walking home together, not tonight.

"I'll be over as soon as I get my bag and take the garbage out," Erik tells him. 

"Take your time," Charles says, pretending to be casual. He's not very good at it. "There's no hurry."

Erik snorts and shakes his head, slamming his locker shut with his powers as they turn to walk out of the school. They part ways at the front doors, Erik turning left towards his house and Charles going right towards the bicycle rack and then back up to the mansion.

He heads directly up to his bedroom when he gets home, changing out of his corduroys and sweater into a t-shirt and sweats, loose and comfortable--and, well, easier to remove later, too. He gives his room a once-over, but it's still just as neat as it was last night and this morning, everything perfectly tidy, and clean sheets on the bed.

The box of cake mix is sitting out on the counter in the kitchen. He reads over the instructions three times, committing them to memory, before he turns on the oven and gets out the eggs.

Charles is sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the oven, peering doubtfully through the tiny window in front, when he feels the familiar sense of Erik's mind, quickly approaching the back door. He scrambles to his feet just as Erik knocks. "Come in," he calls out, and Erik slips inside, setting his bag down at the table.

"Hi," Erik says. 

He's changed clothes, too, Charles notices immediately. But where Charles has dressed down, Erik looks nicer than he did before, wearing his good khakis and a plaid button-down shirt that turns his eyes very blue. 

"You look nice," Charles says.

Erik smiles at him crookedly, and Charles thinks for a moment he's going to come out with something complimentary in return, but instead what Erik says is, "You have a huge stripe of cake batter right here." He gestures to his own face, dragging a finger from his cheek almost all the way back to his ear to demonstrate.

"Do I? Whoops." Charles raises his hand up to wipe it off, but Erik shakes his head. 

"Let me get it," he says, and so Charles lowers his hand and waits as Erik crosses the room to stand a few inches in front of him. He tilts his head up automatically, and he can feel his lips part without his meaning them to. His body knows this position now, knows that it's what comes right before kissing. 

Erik doesn't kiss him, though. Instead, to Charles' great surprise, he leans in and swipes his tongue across Charles' face, a wet and sloppy lick everywhere the batter is.

Charles bursts out laughing. "Erik!" he says, shoving playfully at Erik's shoulders. "That's disgusting!"

" _That's_ disgusting?" Erik says, raising his eyebrows. "After all the other places our mouths have been, that's disgusting?"

"Very," Charles says primly, and rocks up on his toes to press a kiss to Erik's mouth before wiggling away to peer again at the oven. Erik comes to stand behind him, resting a hand on his back.

"You didn't have to make me a cake, you know," he says.

"I wanted to," Charles says, and hopes he doesn't sound too earnest. "It still has about half an hour to go. In the mean time, I've got dinner all set out in the other room. Let me go wash up and we can eat."

Dinner didn't come out as perfect as he'd wanted, but he hopes it will be enough. He thinks the chops are probably a little tough and he's still not convinced the potatoes are cooked all the way through, but he supposes they'll soon find out. In the mean time, he slips away to scrub up in the bathroom. He examines himself closely in the mirror to make sure there's no more cake batter lurking anywhere, then pulls back to stare at his reflection. 

This is it. He and Erik have all night together and tomorrow too, alone in the house.

He thinks his eyes might be glittering, from the nerves and excitement, unless he's just imagining it. There's definitely more color on his cheeks than there would normally be. He looks a little like he's just downed a flute of champagne--feels like it, too, really, bubbles tickling and turning through his stomach.

 _Be calm_ , Charles tells himself sternly. Still, when he goes to leave the washroom, he's frozen for a second, his hand on the doorknob, and he doesn't know why. Erik is right on the other side of the door, just a room away, and everything Charles wants is right here, everything he's been planning and waiting for and looking forward to, a chance to be together like this before spring comes and school ends and the future gets less certain--and yet he can't move at all. He has to rest his forehead against the wood for a moment, and take a deep breath, before he opens the door and heads out.

Raven and Charles usually just eat in the kitchen, but tonight Charles has set the table in the small dining room. (The large dining room, which can seat a few dozen, is another one of the rooms that hasn't been used since Kurt died, and he and Sharon stopped having dinner parties to entertain his business acquaintances and her society friends.) Erik is already seated, sipping his water, and Charles slips into the seat next to him and unfolds his napkin in his lap.

"Did you really cook all this yourself?" Erik says.

Charles nods. "It's probably not very good," he says apologetically, "but I'm sure we'll manage." He picks up the bowl of peas and passes it to Erik, who takes it and begins to serve himself almost absently.

"You've put a lot of work into this."

He's gazing at Charles as he speaks, mouth serious, and Charles looks away, shrugging as he addresses himself to the chops. "Well, we had to eat something."

"Still," Erik says, and when Charles won't look up, he nudges him psychically for his attention. "Thank you," he says once Charles is looking at him, and Charles has to look away quickly.

He was right in predicting the food quality. The chops are a little dry and the potatoes seem a little unevenly cooked, for all he put them in and just let them sit there, but the peas are good and nothing is inedible. When the kitchen timer rings, Charles jumps up to take the cake out of the oven, leaving it to cool on the counter. It's a little lumpy, but looks fine. He has strict instructions not to try and dollop on the thick chocolate frosting until it's fully cool, so he returns to the dining room where Erik is cleaning up their plates.

He's nervous. He shouldn't be nervous. It's just Erik. 

"Hey," he says, strangely shy, and Erik puts down the pile of plates and silverware and walks over towards him.

"Hey," he replies. "Thank you again."

"It's your birthday," Charles says by way of explanation.

"Not until tomorrow," Erik reminds him, and Charles is going to tell him not to split hairs, but he takes those last few steps to Charles and swiftly kisses him, cutting off any protest. Charles kisses back easily, despite the prickly tension in his spine. This, at least, is comfortable and familiar and before long he's leaning back against the wall of the dining room with Erik curled down to meet him, his broad hands against the span of Charles' back. He can feel himself relaxing in Erik's arms, like he always does, as long as he focuses on the kissing, on Erik's mouth on his, on the way he tastes and feels and sounds.

"What else did you have planned for tonight, then?" Erik asks when he pulls away, and Charles feels the nervousness return.

He doesn't know why he's so nervous. He's waited for this. He's dreamed about it. It's not like Erik is going to hurt him.

Still, he hesitates. Maybe they should draw it out and play a game or have a drink or put on some records. Maybe there's a movie on television they should watch first. Or maybe he should just go ahead and get it over with.

'Get it over with.' That makes it sound like it's something Charles is dreading. And he's not, he's really not, but maybe if they just do it, he won't spoil the rest of the weekend by being so tense and awkward and anticipatory.

"Why don't you come upstairs with me and find out?" Charles says, as coyly as he can manage with his heart thumping in his rib cage hard enough that he can feel it in his bones.

"Okay," Erik says. There's a hint of a crack in his voice, which Charles hasn't heard from him in years. 

Charles takes his hand and leads him down the halls and up the stairs. Neither of them speaks as they walk, and the entire house is silent and still around them. 

He releases Erik once they reach the bedroom, turning away from him to start undressing quickly. He's already gotten his t-shirt over his head and tossed to the floor, and he has his hands on the waistband to his sweats when the warm pressure of Erik's hand lands on his arm. Charles jumps, startled by the sudden contact, turning his head to stare at Erik.

"Come here for a second," Erik murmurs. He looks embarrassed, though Charles doesn't know why. 

Most people wouldn't be able to tell what emotion Erik was feeling. But Charles can. He knows that face, every flicker and subtle change in it. He _knows_ Erik.

He takes a step toward Erik, and lets Erik pull him into a hug. The hug turns into another kiss, and then Charles mouths his way down Erik's jaw, to his throat. He has to undo the top few buttons of the shift to be able to expose Erik's skin enough to press a firm kiss to his pulse point. He rests his lips there for a few seconds, feeling the way Erik's heartbeat seems to be fluttering just as wildly as Charles' is.

 _I love you_ , Charles thinks. It's not as if it's a new or surprising thought, but it feels wild and newly frightening all of a sudden, here like this. He loves Erik so much he thinks he could choke on it.

He and Erik unbutton the rest of his shirt together, trading more kisses as they do it. They separate again just long enough to slip off their trousers, and then Erik is pulling Charles down onto the bed with him, holding Charles close and caged with his big hands on Charles' back and his foot tucked close behind Charles' calf.

"How do we do this?" Erik says, his voice still soft.

"Same as last time," Charles says softly. He can't quite look at Erik. "We'll just...kiss and then...well, start with your fingers and kind of...stretch it out. And then we go from there." 

Strange to think how nervous he is even talking about it. They've done that much already and he enjoyed it. That's putting it lightly, even--he remembers the thrill of having even that much of Erik inside of him. He remembers the desire to push back against the pressure to get it deeper. He remembers how good it felt, like he was going crazy. 

He tries to hold onto those memories as Erik kisses him again, kisses his mouth and then behind his ear and his throat, noses his collarbone, licks at one of his nipples. He holds onto Erik's shoulders and tries not to dig his fingers in as Erik presses kisses all over his skin and then urges him to roll onto his stomach. 

"Are you--um," Erik starts to ask. He can't seem to find the end of the sentence, though, instead merely rubbing his hand up and down Charles' spine. Charles doesn't jump at the touch, but it's a near thing. He forces himself to relax. He needs to calm himself; if his shoulders and back are this tense, he can't imagine what...other parts of him must be like.

"Keep going," Charles murmurs. "Go on."

Erik hesitates, but after a few quiet seconds, Erik's lips press to Charles' shoulder in a soft kiss, then continue downward.

Charles rests his head on his folded arms and closes his eyes. He tries to concentrate solely on the sensations--Erik's warm breath and wet mouth, between his shoulder blades and the small of his back, and then, too, Erik's strong and gentle hand coming down to palm the flesh of Charles' behind.

It feels good. It does feel good. Charles just needs to figure out how to stop thinking, because he knows it's his brain that's the problem. It's always his brain that's the problem, working twice as hard as anyone else's. If he could just shut it down, just let his body take over, he would be fine, he knows it.

Except he doesn't want fine, does he? It should be--it has be perfect. He's wanted this for so long. He's put so effort and thought into arranging all of this, and who knows when they'll get another opportunity? It has to be now. It's their only chance.

Erik is squeezing him very lightly--like you'd squeeze a peach to check for ripeness, Charles thinks. For some reason that strikes him as particularly ridiculous, and he has to bite his lip to keep in check the semi-hysterical laughter that threatens to bubble up.

But then Erik's thumb is stroking down Charles' crease, and Charles doesn't feel like laughing anymore.

He takes a deep breath and forces himself up on his knees, widening his stance to allow Erik an easier way. Erik's sharp intake of breath is comforting, a reminder that Erik is affected, too. It shouldn't be this easy to forget that Erik is in this with him, when all of this is _about_ Erik, when Erik is the one who is doing everything to him. 

Erik's voice is very low when he speaks, like it's coming from somewhere deeper in his chest. It's a little difficult to make out the words, even in the quiet room. "Last time, we needed... Do you still have lotion?"

"In the drawer of the nightstand," Charles says. "There's a tub of Vaseline."

Erik's hand are gone from his body as Erik moves away. Charles bites his lip hard and keeps his eyes screwed shut, listening to the squeak of the drawer and faint clatter as Erik examines its contents. After a moment, the mattress dips and he can feel once again the heat of Erik's body besides him.

"Chapped lips?" Erik says.

Right: the tub's been opened, evidence of Charles' activities this week. "No, I just," Charles tries. He has to stop and swallow and start again. "I've been... you know. Practicing."

He hears the way Erik swallows, feels his hand tighten on Charles' hip, and steals into his mind just enough to get the impression of Erik's mental image of that--the Charles in Erik's mind is much less clumsy, much more practiced and attractive. Charles tries hard to see himself like that, to imagine he's calm and cool and ready for this, tries to imagine he's good at this.

He can be. He knows he can be. He's practiced. Erik has done at least this much before, gently pulling apart his cheeks. Erik's hand more than one finger inside of him. They haven't even reached that part yet, so he should be able to relax.

Relax relax relax. He keeps repeating it to himself as he feels Erik's first finger brush against his hole.

He jumps anyway, his whole body going tense.

"Um," Erik says. Charles can tell he's nervous too, that he's confused. His own face is burning and he's glad Erik can't see it. "You need to relax a little, I think."

"I am," Charles insists, his voice wavering more than he'd like. "I am, I swear. I will. Keep going."

He can't ruin this. It was hard enough to get the house to himself for a weekend and to get Erik to agree to come--he doesn't know that he'll have this chance again. He needs to calm his body down if he wants them to ever be able to go this far. And he does--he wants this, he _knows_ he wants it, and he doesn't understand why his body won't cooperate.

He feels Erik's fingers again, attempting to enter him. It's just one and he can feel the resistance of his body, feel how tight it is. It goes in, eventually, and it doesn't hurt, not really, and Charles takes deep breaths, squeezing his eyes shut. This is easy. They've done this before. He's done this on his own. He needs to calm down.

"It's...tight," Erik says breathlessly.

"Isn't is supposed to be?" Charles manages to say.

"Not--Charles, are you--" The finger pulls out, and Charles feels a momentary pang at the loss, but if anything, he's even more tense now.

"Don't stop," Charles says. "Just--just keep going. It's fine. Just go ahead and do it."

Erik doesn't, though, doesn't do anything, and he doesn't say anything either. After a moment, Charles raises his head, twisting his neck around so he can see. Erik's still kneeling on the bed, sitting back on his heels. Normally Charles would appreciate the view, Erik's chest and his abdominal muscles, his strong thighs and his prick, but right now he can't look away from Erik's face, because it's still and shuttered in the way that only happens when Erik is absolutely furious.

"Erik?" Charles reaches out with his mind, a little timidly, but Erik's put up the barriers that say he doesn't want Charles to go any farther, that he doesn't want Charles there with him. It hits Charles like a blow to the solar plexus. He can't stand to be in this position for another moment longer, exposed and vulnerable like that without Erik's touch or Erik's thoughts to ground him, so he rolls onto his side, curling up a little.

"You're not even--" Erik starts to say, but even though he cuts himself off, Charles knows what he meant and couldn't say, which is that Charles' erection is almost gone. Erik shakes his head, and says, "I didn't think--Charles. When you said this was my birthday present."

"Yeah?"

"I thought. If I'd known you meant it like this, I wouldn't have... I didn't realize you meant you would do it _for me_." Erik's nails are pressing into his thigh. Charles imagines it must hurt. He wishes, vaguely through his misery, that he could push Erik's hand away and kiss it better. "I thought this was something you wanted, too," Erik finishes, in a rough low voice.

"I do," Charles says quickly. "Erik, I do want it. I swear."

"You're--nothing about this--you're completely--" Charles thinks Erik's stutter might have more to do with his anger than any hesitance at describing their physical actions. He's very nearly shaking with it. "You don't look like you want it!" he finally manages to say. "The whole time--your whole body is..."

Charles pushes himself up and pulls his knees close to his chest. He doesn't know how to explain what's going through his head, what's been going through his head all night, all week, and what does it matter anyway? Erik's prick is getting soft and he's so angry he can barely look at Charles. They won't be doing this tonight. Charles ruined it. They've lost their chance.

He doesn't want to cry, not about this, not here with Erik, so instead he turns his back and slowly climbs off the bed.

"It doesn't matter anymore, does it?" he says. "It's obviously not going to happen, now. I should go frost the cake, it should be cool enough."

He pulls his underwear and sweats back on, still not looking at Erik. 

" _Charles_ ," Erik says, sounding angry and desperate and hurt and, most of all, like there's something more he wants to say, but he doesn't know how to put it into words.

Rather than look, Charles walks quickly from the room, still fumbling to get his shirt right side out as he stumbles towards the stairs.

He's still blushing, livid and mortified and depressed as he touches the top of the cake to check the temperature and then takes out the bowl of frosting. He ruined it. He ruined their chances to do this, ruined their night, and probably ruined Erik's birthday. It was one thing, one stupid thing that he wanted so badly, that he's literally been dreaming about it for weeks. He doesn't know why his body wouldn't cooperate--all he knows is that he's almost relieved they didn't go through with it.

He's exhausted, suddenly. He just wants to go to sleep, but instead he morosely attends to frosting the cake until he feels Erik approaching.

He can feel Erik's mind again, he realizes. Those signals--he always pictures them as thorns, like Sleeping Beauty's castle, or orange glaring NO TRESPASSING signs in the woods--are gone again, like he hadn't locked Charles away in the first place, trapped alone in his own head. It's a small enough relief in the pit of misery Charles is in, but it's something. Erik feels less angry now (though there is still some anger there) and more just... unhappy.

He's standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. Charles can't quite look at him yet, so he stares down at the cake, waiting for him to speak. After a minute, though, he realizes Erik isn't going to say anything at all. It's up to Charles to speak first.

"Could you get the plates down from the cabinet please?" he says quietly.

Charles picks up the cake and sets it on the kitchen table, before sitting down in one of the chairs. Erik fetches the plates, and forks as well, before taking the place opposite him.

Charles cuts them each a slice--smaller for him, fatter for Erik. Fudge frosting on devil's food cake: Erik's always had a sweet tooth, and chocolate is his favorite. When they would go down to the sweet shop together as boys, when Erik had saved up his allowance for a treat, Erik would always spend all his money on chocolates, while Charles got gobstoppers and lemon drops, always carefully keeping track to make sure he didn't spend more than Erik.

Right now, though, Erik is frowning down at the cake, pushing crumbs around with his fork.

Charles takes a bite of his own slice. It's not bad, sweet and rich, but it sticks in his throat when he swallows. He stands up to get himself a glass of milk.

As soon as he's opened the refrigerator, Erik speaks.

"Maybe I should just go home. I could tell my mother you thought you were coming down with something."

Charles almost drops the milk bottle. He slams the refrigerator door shut and spins to look at Erik, who is finally meeting his eyes.

"Please don't," Charles says fervently. "We still--I didn't mean to ruin everything."

"You didn't ruin anything," Erik says. "You didn't--I just--I don't understand. I thought--" He's holding the fork in his hand, rubbing at it absently with his thumb. Charles can see it warping in Erik's grip. He wonders if Erik even notices. Erik closes his eyes and squeezes his hands into fists. He breathes in and out deeply and just when Charles thinks he's not going to elaborate, he opens his eyes again.

"I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do," he continues in a rush. "Nothing--I don't want to make you do anything. You shouldn't have to do something just because I want it, not if...if you don't."

"But I did!" Charles blurts out. 

"It didn't--" Erik looks away. "You didn't seem like it."

Charles can see how much it embarrasses him, the light flush on his cheeks, more subtle than the way Charles' whole face turns red. Still, for all that Charles can tell how much Erik would like to be anywhere else instead of having this conversation, he's having it anyway. It makes Charles' heart feel hollow and too big for his chest.

"I...I don't know," Charles admits. "I don't know why--I did want it. And...I've been practicing, like I said. Ever since that first night that we--I've been thinking about it a lot. But--I don't know."

Charles slowly walks back towards the table and takes his seat.

"It's all going so fast," he says once he sits down again. "We have this weekend but who knows how many more? Who knows how much time we have? I'm applying to college and then--and there's never any place for us to be alone and you're so afraid about asking your mom to come over here and we can't do it at your house and--you're eighteen now. And I'll be eighteen soon and my mother--my trust fund--" He rests his elbows on the table and covers his eyes with his hands. "It's going by so quickly. If it doesn't happen now, when will we get another chance? There's so much I want to do--I want to spend all my time with you and I can't and before long, everything is going to change."

Erik's sigh is audible. "I think about it, too," he admits. "Not all of that, I mean, but--I think about those things, too, Charles. And I don't know _how_ to--" He stops again, and the breath he lets out this time is even louder with frustration. Charles lifts his head enough to rest his chin on his hands, making himself meet Erik's gaze.

"Do you remember when we were nine," Erik says abruptly. The fork in his hand is completely unrecognizable by now, little more than a stream of metal flowing in between his knuckles. "My mom let us put up that tent in the backyard and we stayed there all spring."

"Our fortress," Charles says, remembering. No one else had been allowed in; even Mrs. Lehnsherr had left her occasional delivery of milk and cookies or sandwiches on a tray outside. It was safe, far away from the unpleasantness of home with Cain and Kurt, and it was private, and it was special, just for them.

"I wish," Erik says, and he doesn't have to finish the sentence for Charles to know what he means.

"Me, too."

"I hate seeing you unhappy," Erik says, looking back down at the cake again. The words are coming out quickly, tumbling messily out of Erik's mouth. He sounds angry again, but Charles can tell, now, it's an undirected anger: anger at the universe, into the void, to himself, more than at Charles. "I hate it. It's worse than--when it's me, I can handle it, I can deal with it, but when it's you, I just-- And there's nothing I can do, nobody I can protect you from, and I don't know what to do or how to make it better."

Charles is glad that Erik isn't looking at him. He has to press his fingers hard against his eyes for a second and take a deep breath; when he's sure he's not going to cry, he says, "You do make it better. Me having you--that makes it better." His voice still sounds shaky, but he can't do anything about that.

"But I couldn't..." Erik starts to say. He glances up from the cake to Charles quickly, and then back down again. "I just want you to be okay."

"I am," Charles insists. His voice very nearly breaks. "Erik, it's not you, you haven't done anything wrong. You're--you're perfect." He looks miserable now, though, like he's going to be sick. Charles can't shake the feeling that he's ruined everything--Erik's birthday, their fleeting time alone. "I'm the one--I--I don't know. I don't know why I couldn't. I don't know what's wrong with me. I swear, Erik, being with you--in that way, in all kinds of ways--it's all I think about. But I know I've--I don't know. All I can think is...is that this was our chance. And if we missed it--I don't want to go away from you without--I want to do everything we can while we can."

His heart is racing. He doesn't want to think about leaving. He doesn't want to think about going anywhere without Erik.

"It's not our only chance," Erik says. Charles is startled by the conviction in his voice. He looks up from his cake, determined as he's ever been. "We'll have--we have more time. Months. And then...you'll have school vacations and things, won't you? And that's--with you leaving, it would make sense for me to be here more. To see you more. To want to spend time with you before you go. Right?" His determination wavers for the first time, pleading a bit on the last word. "My mom--she would understand that?" Charles swallows and nods, holding Erik's gaze. "It's not our only chance," Erik repeats.

"It's not," Charles says. He means it as a question, but he becomes more confident as he speaks the words. Things are changing, but maybe not too quickly. Maybe it's not as dire as he thought it was. 

"I promise," Erik says. He sets down the metal of the former fork down on the table--Charles will have to get him to fix it before he leaves tomorrow--before pushing his chair back and standing up, coming around the table to Charles. He crouches down awkwardly besides him, balancing himself with one hand on Charles' thigh. "You and me versus the world, right? Just like always?"

Charles nods. He reaches down to pick up Erik's hand, turning it over so he can lace their fingers together. "I'm just--I'm really so glad you're here, Erik."

It earns him a brief smile, tiny but perfect. "Me, too."

Charles _hasn't_ ruined everything. Hasn't ruined anything. The hope and relief surging through him are just as uncontrollable as his misery was just a few minutes ago. He feels almost dizzy with it, so many strong emotions in such close proximity. He thinks he's going to cry again, the relief is so strong, but he pushes it back. He craves suddenly, more than anything, the tight hold of Erik's arms around him, like physical evidence of all the things they're saying, and looking in Erik's eyes, he suspects Erik needs it, too.

"Maybe we could--just wind the clock back an hour or two. Start the evening over," Charles suggests.

"I don't think I could eat another dinner," Erik says, deadpan but for the glint of amusement in his eyes, and the faint nerves Charles can still feel from him.

"After the dinner, then." Charles squeezes his hand.

Erik hesitates. "This time you won't--You'll tell me if you--" His eyes are searching something out in Charles'. Charles remembers suddenly the fight they had, after they started fooling around but before they confessed their feelings to each other, when Erik had seen that girl Helen flirting with Charles after school. Erik had thought then that Charles was only doing things with him out of... condescension, or pity, throwing him scraps. And tonight he was afraid of that again, that Charles was just going through with it to make him happy.

Pride's what keeps Erik going, gives him strength from day to day, and it drives Charles crazy sometimes but it's part of what makes Erik _Erik_.

He won't give Erik the knife tonight, Charles decides. He'll save it in his dresser for a better time, a time when Erik would be able to accept it. Christmas is coming up soon, and they usually exchange gifts then, even though Erik doesn't celebrate. Or--an anniversary, maybe. Three months or six months or even more. There's lot of occasions to come.

"Let's start with the kissing," Charles says. "That was good, wasn't it?"

"Charles," Erik says more firmly. "You have to--we're only going to do it if you really want it. If you start to--tell me to stop. Promise." Then, reaching out to take Charles' other hand as well, "We have lots of time. It doesn't have to be tonight."

Erik squeezes his fingers and Charles nods.

"Okay," he says. "I promise." He squeezes Erik's fingers back, then uses his grip to pull Erik up to his feet. "Kissing," he says again, firmly, standing up to face Erik.

"Don't be pushy," Erik murmurs, but Charles can tell he doesn't mind. He likes it, even, as he leans down to meet Charles for a kiss.

They kiss for a long time, slowly and with none of the haste of their time in the bedroom earlier. The cake sits, untouched, as they slowly move from the kitchen and back towards the stairs, then up to Charles' bedroom. In the hall, they shed their shirts again and before long they're back in Charles' bedroom, shirtless and warm and flushed and stumbling towards the bed. Charles is already panting, his heart pleasantly racing the way it always does when Erik's hands are on his body.

"Remember, you promised," Erik says as he gently pushes Charles down onto the mattress.

"I remember," Charles says, but as he pulls Erik down on top of him, smiling and happy and warm, he has a feeling it's not going to be a problem this time.

***

Afterwards, Erik says quietly, "It was good, then?"

Charles' head is still tucked into the crook of Erik's neck; Erik's fingers are drawing distracting, abstract designs through the cooling sweat of Charles' back. They had tried it this way, with Charles in Erik's lap instead of lying on his belly, because Erik wanted to be able to see Charles' face, look into his eyes and keep track of his reactions while they did it. This way, too, they could kiss through the difficult parts.

It feels like too much effort to raise his head now, though, with every part of his body feeling so warm and relaxed and pleasantly fuzzy. He kisses Erik's shoulder, just because it's there. "Couldn't you tell?" he says.

He knows Erik is smiling, even though he can't see him. It's not the sort of knowledge that he gets from his telepathy, but the sort he gets from knowing Erik.

Erik nuzzles his hair. "And now? Are you going to fall asleep like this?"

"Noooo," Charles says slowly. It's a tempting thought. He is worn out, and not just from the orgasms, he suspects, but from the emotional turmoil and revelations of tonight as well. The release of tension is always a relief, whether it's the climax of his body or something entirely mental, but either way it's exhausting. But... "I do want to clean up first. A bath, I think." He does raise his head then, giving Erik a small smile of his own. "Join me?"

The tub in the bathroom nearest Charles' room is too small to be perfectly comfortable for two people (or so Charles suspects; he's never actually put it to the test). On the third floor, in one of the suites that never gets used these days but still gets cleaned and polished to a shine every week, there's a bigger tub, one that could probably fit a half dozen without too much crowding. It probably has, if half of what Charles has heard about the particular Xavier ancestor who had it put in is true. He's the same one responsible for some of the more interesting pornographic literature Charles found in the attic when he was younger, as well.

"It's shaped like a seashell," Erik says doubtfully.

"I think it's a reference to the birth of Venus," Charles says. The entire room is decorated in a classical theme, busy with pictures and carvings that seem to straddle a line between high art and something rather more obscene. There are a few places where things are obviously missing, and Charles guesses those are where the things that tumbled over that line had been removed by succeeding generations.

"It's ridiculous," Erik says, but he doesn't seem particularly annoyed by it, and he climbs into the bath with Charles eagerly.

The water is nice and hot and there's plenty of room to stretch out in the giant tub. Charles leans back against Erik's chest and sighs contentedly as Erik begins to pet his hair. He feels calm for the first time in days. There's still a lingering disappointment--tonight was far from the perfect romantic weekend he envisioned and it's likely things will just get more difficult as they get closer to graduation--but it wasn't a disaster, either, not really. The food had turned out fine, he and Erik had eventually managed to have sex, and now they're relaxing together.

At least, Charles is relaxing. Erik's thoughts are heavier than Charles had expected once they slid into the steamy water of the tub. 

"Erik?" he asks quietly, tilting his head to look up. Erik glances down at Charles, his expression troubled for a moment before it flickers into a smile. "What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing," Erik says.

"Impossible," Charles says, smiling just a little. It's a shadow of an old joke about the vast and chaotic capacity of the brain. _He's not thinking about nothing,_ Charles used to grouse to Raven and Erik whenever anyone said so. _It's impossible to think about nothing, your brain is always thinking even if you don't realize it._

"Nothing important," Erik clarifies, and Charles pokes his collarbone, then kisses it better when Erik jumps. "Just...lying to my mother. It feels--I know it doesn't matter. And I know that I'm lying to her just by being with you and doing these things, and I don't want to stop but...I feel like I'm taking advantage. Of her. Of your leaving. I don't know." 

Charles pushes himself out of the water just enough to press a kiss to Erik's mouth, then slides back down, still looking up at him. He looks miserable. Another strike against their perfect romantic getaway, but maybe one he can still salvage.

"It's not really lying," Charles says. "It's hardly lying at all. It's true, isn't it? It's true that I'm going to college. It's true that wherever it is, it won't be here. It's true that you'll miss me and you want to spend time with me before I go." At least, it's true as far as Erik knows at this point. Charles can't give up his favorite fantasy, the one he falls asleep to every night, the one where he somehow convinces Erik to come with him to college, to live with him in a place of their own where they can be together every day without having to worry about making excuses to parents or prying eyes of dorm mates. 

"It is," Erik allows.

"So you're not lying, not about that," Charles says. "The other stuff, maybe--what we're doing obviously isn't what she thinks we're doing. But if you had--" And, oh, it hurts to even say it, even hypothetically. "--if you had a girlfriend, you wouldn't be telling your mother everything about her, would you? When you kissed and what you did on dates?"

"No!" Erik says quickly.

"So really," Charles concludes, "the only thing that's any different is that you do have a sweetie and you haven't told her. That's the only lie, and it's not even a real lie, just an omission."

He's proud of his logical skills, the product of being the star of his debate class last year. Something about the fear inherent in the knowledge that he can change anyone's mind whenever he wants made him strive to do well in the class and he'd even won an award. The award pales in comparison to this, though, the way that Erik's hesitation slowly starts to evaporate.

"I guess you're right," he says.

"I'm always right," Charles says proudly, and Erik splashes him for his troubles. "Hey!" he yelps, and then splashes back.

They stay in the bath until the water's gone lukewarm and the skin of their fingertips has begun to wrinkle, and then they make their way together back down to Charles' room. Buried under a mountain of blankets, sharing a pillow, Erik's hand still resting possessively on the small of Charles' back, they fall asleep. Charles' last conscious thought is that this is exactly what he wanted, one perfect moment, stolen away from all the cruelties of time and change and other people. All of the planning and stress is worth it, for this.

He's selfish, though, especially when it comes to Erik. They're going to keep stealing as many of these moments as they possibly can.

***

The next day passes quickly, calm and low-key and pleasant. He and Erik play chess, work on their homework, even dance a little more to one of Charles' favorite records. They're curled up together on the sofa in the den, both reading silently, when Charles recognizes the familiar call of Raven's mind.

_Charles? Where are you?_

_In here_ , Charles tells her, straightening up from his position, half lying across Erik's lap. He's been too wrapped up in reading and having Erik close by to notice her approaching the house; she's already home, in the kitchen.

Erik looks up from his own book and gives him a curious look.

"Raven's home," Charles tells him, and he can feel the instant tensing of every muscle of Erik's body, even though his face stays neutral.

"Oh," Erik says.

Charles is uncertain about whether it would make Erik more comfortable if he moved, if they separated to opposite ends of the couch. But that's silly, isn't it? Raven already knows. She's the person they don't have to hide in front of. Even Erik can't have a problem with that.

It's a moot point soon, anyway, as Raven makes her way to the room before Charles can make a decision or talk to Erik about it.

"Chaaaaaaaaaaarles," she's saying, elongating his name into a cheerful sisterly whine as she enters--though she stops, startled, just inside the doorway. "Oh, hello, Erik! I didn't know you'd still be here. Sorry, Charles, I guess I should have stayed at Carol's later."

"It's fine," Erik says. "I should be getting home soon, anyway. I suppose we lost track of time."

Raven smiles at him. The two of them haven't really spoken since all of this happened between Charles and Erik, Charles reflects. He's a little afraid (and a lot curious) to think what must be going through her mind; she's used to treating Erik as practically another brother, with all the teasing that implies.

Raven flops into a chair across from the couch, an elegant and familiar sprawl.

"Happy Birthday!" Raven says. 

"Thank you," Erik says, almost stiffly.

"You can stay a little while," Raven continues. It's definitely a statement and not a question. "I feel like I haven't seen you in ages." 

Erik is still tense, but he doesn't move to get up, leaning back against the couch again, and that's a start, at least.

"Well," Charles says, "you've been busy with your girlfriends and _Buddy_."

Raven rolls her eyes at him, but she's smiling.

"Yes, and I'm sure it has more to do with that than with you squirreling Erik away whenever you have a chance," Raven says. "You're still taking French, right? What is going on with Madame Kelly's hair this year?"

"It has been strange," Erik admits slowly.

"Carol and I think she has a secret lover," Raven says. "There's no other excuse for it."

"She's a widow, I think," Erik says. "It wouldn't have to be a secret."

"Maybe _he_ needs it to be secret," Raven says. "Maybe _he's_ married to someone else."

"I think you and Carol are watching too much Perry Mason," Erik says, but he's slowly starting to become more at ease, and for once Charles doesn't mind that they're talking about something he doesn't understand. If, at the end, Erik trusts Raven just a little bit more...well, maybe it will make him feel better about lying to everyone else all the time.

They do eventually move on to other television programs--Raven fills them in on the _Twilight Zone_ episode that aired the night before and that leads to a discussion of what they would do with a robot assistant until it really _is_ time for Erik to head home.

"I'm going to go upstairs and put my bag away," Raven says, getting to her feet. "I'll see you at school on Monday, Erik! Give my love to your mother."

"I will. It was nice to see you," Erik says, and Charles can tell he means it. He sends Raven his gratitude as she picks up her overnight bag and retreats, not before giving him an entirely inappropriate wink that he appreciates slightly less.

Erik collects his own bag and the two of them make their way towards the door.

"I'll see you on Monday morning," Erik says. He gives Charles a peck of a kiss. "Thank you for doing all this."

"As long as you had a good birthday," Charles says.

"The best," Erik promises. 

"Even better than your twelfth?" That was the year Mrs. Lehnsherr had somehow saved up and surprised him with a brand new bike, cherry red and straight out of all of Erik's dreams. It still sticks in Charles' memory as the most thrilled and excited he's ever seen Erik get, speechless with amazement.

Erik shakes his head. "No comparison at all," he says. He's holding Charles' hand, has been since they left the den, and now he rubs his thumb softly across Charles' knuckles. It makes Charles want to shiver all over, again. 

"Okay," Charles says, biting his lip. "Go home, then. I'll see you Monday."

"Okay," Erik says, but it takes another few seconds before he actually lets go of Charles' hand and moves away. "Goodbye."

"Goodbye," Charles says. He watches from the backdoor as Erik disappears from view, and even then he keeps track of Erik's mind until he's off the property, before finally letting go.

He heads up to his room. His applications are still on his desk, where he's been avoiding them for the past few weeks. Now is as good as any to start looking at them, he supposes.

Charles sits down and gets to work.

***

Charles doesn't see Raven again until supper. He's heating up a tin of soup at the stove when she waltzes airily into the kitchen, stepping around him to liberate the leftover cake from the fridge, and then carefully slicing herself a portion as large as her head.

"You're going to ruin your appetite," Charles says disapprovingly. He knows it makes him stodgy and fussy and no fun as an older brother at all, but sometimes he can't help it.

"Not if I just have this for my supper," Raven says, leaning back against the counter as she attacks the cake with her fork. She rolls her eyes at his expression. "Oh, fine, I'll have some vegetables for dessert if it means so much to you."

"Thank you."

"So was your secret romantic weekend everything you imagined?" Raven asks, licking frosting off of her fork.

Charles considers as he stirs his soup.

"Yes and no," he finally says. "It didn't manage to go as I planned, not really, but...." He doesn't want to give her the details--it's embarrassing and she's his little sister besides. What happened was private. "We talked. About a lot of things, really. But it was lovely. It wasn't like I imagined, but I'm glad it happened this way. I think we...it was good. I think it was a good birthday." He thinks about Erik's smile as he was leaving, the way he held Charles' hand. "I know it was a good birthday."

"Awwww," Raven says, and elbows him good-naturedly. "And to think it wouldn't have happened if I hadn't suggested it!"

"Well, I wouldn't go quite that far," Charles says. 

"I would," Raven says. "I would go so far as to say that I'm a romantic genius and that you owe me big time."

"Nonsense," Charles says.

"Nope," Raven says. "You definitely do. In fact, you're definitely going to take me into town tomorrow and buy me a milkshake as a thank you."

Charles was going to dive back into those college applications tomorrow, but they can wait. He wasn't wrong, yesterday. He'll be gone soon, off to college, leaving behind not only Erik, but Raven too. He might as well make the most of the time he has left. 

"Fine," Charles says, laughing. "But not because I owe you anything, just because you're my sister and I love you."

"I'll take it," Raven says. 

There are worse ways to end one of the best weekends of his life. There's still a lot on his mind and a lot to sort through--he doesn't have any illusions that the next few months will be easy. But there will be time enough to worry in the coming months. For the moment, he's going to hold onto this feeling of contentment for as long as he can.


	2. January: all points of the compass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik's spent his whole life being different from everyone around him--Jewish, mutant, poor, and not the least bit interested in even the prettiest girls at school. Being with Charles has made him feel, for the first time, that maybe he wasn't entirely alone in his preferences. At least until he finds out that Charles likes boys and girls both and he's once again forced to grapple with who he is, what he wants, and the creeping knowledge that he's just as much of a freak and just as alone as he's always feared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with us through this verse, folks! :) We hope it gives you at least the teeniest fraction of enjoyment it gives us!
> 
>  **Content Warning:** This chapter contains a character (Erik) struggling with his sexuality and self-worth in the face of finding out his boyfriend is bisexual rather than homosexual. It's not biphobia as we would think of it now--Erik's issues are less derision or hatred and more confusion borne of period-typical limited exposure to LGBT concepts.
> 
> That all being said, those sensitive to biphobia and internalized homophobia should be aware :)

They're in one of Erik's favorite cars--a 1951 Packard that looks like it just rolled off the assembly line despite being nearly a decade old. It's blue in color, the same blue as Charles' eyes when he's sleepy, and their breath is currently fogging up the windows as they kiss curled up on the plush front seat.

It was Charles' idea, a few months ago, and Erik has to admit it was a good one. They may not be able to drive out to the scenic overlook like the other kids in their class, but the Xavier property is vast and remote and quiet--it's just as easy to find a place to park out here, and with less chance of being caught by the patrolling policemen supposedly concerned with teen morals and decency. Where they're parked now, surrounded mostly by trees, isn't even visible from the house. Charles says it used to be the servants' entrance from the road, back when they had servants at the house, and has assured him time and again that no one comes back here. Erik trusts Charles, but he's checked for himself, too--back in November, he left a hefty branch across the road, and it was still intact the next time they came out here and the time after that. It's still there now, though Erik isn't concerning himself with it as much as he's concerning himself with working the little plastic buttons of Charles' cardigan out from their holes.

"I'll help," Charles says breathlessly when once Erik begins kissing his neck, still fighting with the buttons, but instead he just claws uselessly at Erik's own shirt, still tucked into his slacks, though he's slipped out of his jacket. Charles, Erik can feel, is already hard and restless to get rid of their clothes.

"You're eager," Erik says, though he's moving just as impatiently. He'd been extra aware of Charles all through the movie they watched tonight, a war film that normally wouldn't necessarily hold Erik's interest and one that starred Frank Sinatra, whom Erik doesn't care for, at that. The man playing his lieutenant, though--that was another story. He plays the bounty hunter on one of the westerns that plays on Saturday nights and though when Erik does--well, when he touches himself, he mostly thinks of Charles, there have been more than a few nights when his mind has drifted towards the handsome western star.

His general boredom with the film and the close-ups of the actor on screen made him wish even more than usual that he could be kissing Charles at the movie, or even just holding his hand. He's making up for it now, finally pulling apart the two sides of Charles' cardigan and starting on the buttons on his shirt.

"Mm," Charles murmurs, finally pulling Erik's shirt out of his slacks and dragging his fingernails up Erik's back. Erik shivers.

"Does it have anything to do with the lieutenant in the film?" Erik asks, his tone teasing as Charles' shirt comes undone one button at a time, finally.

"He was quite handsome," Charles agrees. "Better than Sinatra. And the woman--well, I can understand why Sinatra and the other fellow were fighting over her. Well worth fighting for." He grins there, the smile almost obscene, and climbs into Erik's lap, but Erik's frozen. Stunned.

"What do you mean?" he asks slowly, pushing Charles back when he attempts to kiss Erik's throat.

Charles blinks at him. "That she was gorgeous," Charles says, his intonation rising at the end as if it's a question. The smile's disappeared from his face, transforming into something closer to concern. "Did I say something wrong? You were the one who started the joke. You know, don't you, it's not anybody else but _you_ that gets me like this."

"I'm not _jealous_ ," Erik says, biting out the words. He sounds angry, he can hear it, but he's not angry, either, he's just--confused. He feels like something he thought was fixed just flipped over upon itself: disoriented, and a little seasick. 

Charles is still in his lap, balancing himself with his hands on Erik's shoulders. Erik rests his hands on Charles' firm thighs like they're a lifeline

There's a hint of wariness in Charles' tone as he asks, “Then why are you upset?”

"I'm not upset," Erik says. It's not true, of course, but it comes out anyway, an automatic default response that bypasses thought. He hurries out more words before Charles can call him out on the lie. "It's just that...she's a girl."

"Yes," Charles says, but one of his eyebrows is raised now, and there's an unspoken _and so?_ that makes it clear he doesn't understand what Erik's trying to say.

Every moment of the afternoon in Erik's bedroom back in the fall, when they first admitted their feelings to each other, is burned into Erik's memory. That terror and misery, followed by the relief and happiness and discovery. And it was because it was Charles, yes, because all the impossible things Erik wanted were true, but it was also--

Lots of people, Charles had said. Lots of boys only liked other boys. Like it was something normal. Not Erik missing something, but having something else instead. And he had thought--he'd _assumed_ \--it was the same for Charles, that they were together in it.

"You like girls, then?" Erik says, finally. He has to make a conscious effort not to dig his fingers into Charles' leg, to keep his hands relaxed.

"I told you," Charles says, "I like _you_ better than anybody." He lifts one of his hands to brush a lock of hair off Erik's temple, and then he leans forward to kiss him. Erik tenses up again, though, and Charles sighs against his cheek instead, before lifting himself off of Erik and settling heavily back into the seat beside him.

Erik stares out the front windshield of the car and into the woods. His mind is racing and he can't put any of his thoughts into words, not right now, not with Charles watching. He feels...he shouldn't feel betrayed, Charles has done nothing wrong, and yet.

"I don't see what it matters," Charles says finally, when they've sat in silence for too long. "Why does it matter who I like? There's no one else."

"But if there was," Erik says, measuring each word, "it could be a girl. If you and I weren't--" He sees, out of the corner of his eye, Charles opening his mouth to interrupt. "If I disappeared. If I never existed. If we never met. It could be a girl."

"If you disappeared, I would want to die," Charles blurts out, and then flushes. "I mean--I wouldn't want--and if you never existed--don't talk like that. I'd always want you, I think. Always. If I hadn't met you, if I didn't know you--"

Charles talks like that sometimes, grand confessions with his heart on his sleeve, like he's giving his feelings to Erik, like everything he feels is a gift, naked and raw and out in the open between them. Erik thrives on it, he thrills in it, but it embarrasses him, too. He doesn't know that he can ever be that way. He doesn't know what would happen to him if everything inside were so plainly outside for anyone to see.

But that's not the point right now.

"Charles," he says, not sharp, but pointed, and Charles sighs.

"Yes," Charles says. "Yes, I do find girls attractive. I do--yes."

"You want to kiss girls," Erik says flatly.

"I don't want to kiss anyone but you!" Charles insists.

"But you _could_ kiss girls."

"Anyone _could_ kiss girls, you _could_ kiss girls, it's not _difficult_ \--" Charles is getting flustered and angry, his voice getting louder with a defensive whine and Erik can suddenly hardly stand to be in the car with him.

"Stop messing around, Charles!" Erik snaps and Charles finally goes quiet. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"What is there to tell?" Charles says. When Erik looks over at him, he's slumped back in the seat, staring out the side window, arms folded over his bare chest. "How is it even relevant to, to anything?" He exhales heavily. "It's not like I was keeping it a secret from you."

It _feels_ like Charles has been keeping it a secret. Like he's been lying, or at least misleading Erik. Erik can't tell if he's being irrational or stupid or naive, and that makes him even angrier, somehow. Maybe Erik is making a big deal out of nothing--Charles obviously seems to think so--and he's gotten Charles upset, now, too. He can't help it, though, not with this feeling so heavy and dreadful in the pit of his stomach.

Erik bites his lip, hard enough to sting, forcing himself to look away from Charles. His jacket's in the footwell, so he concentrates on reaching down for that and slipping it back on, tucking his shirt back into his slacks, using his fingers to comb once through his hair. When he's done, he says, "I'd like to go home now, I think."

"Erik," Charles says. Erik can practically feel the weight of Charles' gaze, willing him to look back at him. "Can't you at least tell me what's wrong?"

The frustrated pleading in Charles' tone makes Erik want to wince--almost makes him want to apologize, maybe, if it would make Charles feel better. Except he can't, not right now, not when he feels like this. He can't be here anymore.

"No," Erik says quietly. "I can't."

Charles huffs, exasperated and impatient. "So I don't even get to know why I'm being punished?"

"I'm not punishing you for anything!"

"That's not what it looks like to me," Charles replies, sounding as testy as Erik's ever heard him. Erik still refuses to look over, but he can feel and hear Charles moving around, fixing his own clothing to an acceptable state.

"I just--I can't right now."

It's the best he can come up with, and he hopes for a moment that Charles will understand--that's something Charles has been able to do, sometimes, during the long years of their friendship, understand Erik when he's too confused and overwhelmed and lost to understand his emotions himself--but Charles merely says "Fine" in a tight voice, and neither of them speaks for the length of the ride to Erik's house.

When he pulls the car into his driveway, he chances a look over at Charles, but Charles is staring out the window with his arms crossed. It's for the best, because Erik doesn't know what to say to him besides, "See you at school tomorrow."

"Right," Charles says, and Erik gets out of the car and walks all the way to the house without looking back.

He hopes, distantly, that his mother has already gone to bed, but it's not that late. He'd planned to be out much later when he left this morning--he'd told her not to expect him for dinner and that he'd be home around ten. It's barely nine, now, and she looks up when he comes in, surprised. She's dressed in her nightgown and house coat and slippers, with sewing on her lap. In the background, he can hear one of the radio shows she likes to listen to.

"This is early," she says. He doesn't have a curfew, now that he's turned eighteen, but he always tells her when he'll be home, still. He doesn't want her to worry. He can see, though, that she's worried now.

"There wasn't anything good on television after the movie," Erik lies, easily and fluidly.

"Are you feeling poorly, Erik?" she asks. She frowns and gets to her feet, inspecting his face and placing her hand on his forehead. 

He wishes he could talk to her about this. He wishes he could explain why he's upset, why everything hurts like this, why he's so angry at Charles, even though it's not Charles' fault. He doesn't know why, though, and he can't ask her to help him understand it all, not without telling her things that would break her heart and make her look at him differently.

He shakes his head. Another lie. She doesn't even question them, just accepts everything he tells her because she knows he's a good boy who would never mislead her. It makes him sick how quick he is to take advantage of that, how easy it is to hide the truth from her.

"Just tired," he says. "I should get ready for bed. Do you need anything, Mama?"

She strokes his cheek and gazes at him wistfully.

"My little boy," she says. "So easy to forget you've grown into a man, now."

Erik swallows hard and forces a smile.

"No, no," she says. "I do not need anything. Sleep well, Erik."

"You too," Erik manages to say.

He leans over, pressing a kiss to her cheek. He has the sudden urge to hug her close, tight as he can, and let her pet his hair and comfort him like when he was younger. But that's ridiculous. He's much too old for that now, and even if it were somehow possible for him to do it without convincing her that something _was_ really wrong, he knows it wouldn't work, anyway.

Erik leaves her to her sewing and her program. He stops in the kitchen on the way to his room to pour himself a glass of water. He drinks it slowly and deliberately, standing by the sink. His mother's left a sandwich on the table for him, wrapped up in plastic, on the chance he might be peckish when he got home. The idea of food turns his stomach right now, though, so he just moves the plate into the refrigerator.

He doesn't bother to turn on the light in his bedroom, just strips off his clothes in the dark, leaving them where they fall on the floor instead of depositing them into his hamper. He crawls into bed in just his underwear and undershirt, and curls up on his side to face the wall.

An hour ago, all Erik had on his mind was anticipation as he and Charles made the way down the winding roads, closer and closer to their parking spot in the woods. Charles sitting too close beside him on the seat as he drove, so their thighs and shoulders touched. Feeling Charles' giddiness, bright and almost tangible as he shared it between them. Erik was thinking, nervous but excited, about using his mouth on Charles again--he isn't as good at it as Charles is, he knows, but there's only one way to get better, isn't there, and there's something so dirty and intimate about it, and the way Charles' eyes and mouth always go round and wide with surprise….

And now, all Erik can do is picture the girl in the movie. He's not blind, and he's not stupid. He can tell when a girl is attractive. Of course the girl in the movie was pretty, with big eyes and lips and the kind of curves that make the boys at school whistle and make stupid jokes Erik barely understands and doesn't care to.

And that's the crux of it. It's something that puts him apart from the others. And he doesn't care about that, not really--there are lots of things that set him apart from the other boys at school, like the fact that he's Jewish or that he's a mutant or that he doesn't have as much money as some of the others. Even Charles is different from him in many of those ways--wealthy and well-liked and probably going to Harvard if his interview goes well on Saturday. Erik is none of those things. There are a million ways he's different, but with all the others, he _knows_ it's okay. He knows there are other mutants out there. He knows there are other Jewish people out there. He's far from the poorest student at school. His mother has spent the last eighteen years telling him he wasn't alone in any of those things, but he's always been alone and ashamed and afraid of this other thing. It was a secret, liking Charles the way he did, liking the look of other boys and it made him feel sick right up until Charles was there to tell him he wasn't alone in this, either. It was almost normal. It didn't matter that he wasn't like the other boys, not when Charles was on his side.

But he's not, entirely. Charles may love him and want him, Charles may feel the same desires towards other boys that Erik does, but he still speaks the same language of the boys at school. He still looks at girls and understands why they're appealing, he still looks at girls and feels that warm spark starting deep in his belly, just like all the other boys.

Erik thought he was alone and then Charles proved otherwise, but now Erik feels alone all over again.

He curls up tighter and tries to get his mind to stop racing, tries to calm himself enough to sleep. He just needs to clear his head for a few minutes, just long enough for exhaustion to take over. Maybe things will look better in the morning. Maybe things will make sense in the morning. Maybe Charles will tell him it was all a big misunderstanding.

Maybe. It's a thin thread of hope, but Erik clings to it nonetheless, in the absence of any alternative. 

He evens out his breaths until they're coming slow and even, lulling himself into sleep. If he can't control his mind, he can at least control his body. The other will have to follow in time.

***

Charles spends the whole way back home replaying the conversation with Erik in his head. Repetition doesn't make any of it any more comprehensible, but Charles keeps thinking of different things he should have said, instead of just sitting there gaping like he did. There must have been some way he could have kept things from going off the rails like that, he's sure of it. If he had said the right words, he would have calmed Erik down, soothed him away from whatever freak had possessed him, and they'd still be holding each other, even now.

Or even--at the very least, Charles could have said something clever, something cutting. That's petty and cruel to even think, but Charles can't help it. He's angry at Erik--angry at him for ruining their night together, for being angry at _Charles_ as if Charles has done something wrong. Most of all for the way Charles is angry at Erik for the way he withdrew so completely, leaving Charles alone and confused, refusing to meet him halfway.

Charles parks the car in the garage. He kills the engine, and the silence that follows feels almost like a physical presence around him, swallowing him up like a fog or a blanket. 

He stays there in the car, staring blankly through the windshield at nothing for a few minutes, before he finally forces himself to head inside.

Charles considers heading straight up to his room, but he doesn't really want to be by himself. He follows his sense of Raven's mind to the den. 

She's lying on her stomach on the carpet in front of the TV, where a western is playing, though the volume's low enough that Charles can't understand anything the actors are saying. Raven's hurrying through the math homework she's put off until the last minute yet again, but she looks up as soon as Charles enters. Her relief and gratitude at another distraction hits Charles in a rush.

"You're home early!" Raven says as she sits up.

"I am," Charles says and forces a smile. "What are you up to?"

Raven frowns, though, looking at him more closely.

"Did you and Erik have a fight?" she asks.

"What would make you say that?" Charles asks, looking back to the television with feigned interest.

"Because you're never home early when you're out on dates with Erik and when you come in you're always obnoxiously happy and mellow," Raven says. "Now you're just stiff and uncomfortable. What happened?"

"Nothing," Charles says, mostly because he still doesn't understand himself. "I'm not even sure, it was--I said something completely harmless and he got upset and wanted to go home."

"Harmless," Raven says flatly, with one eyebrow arched.

"Yes!" Charles insists. "Harmless! He made a joke about one of the actors in the film we saw being attractive and I made one back about the actress being attractive and then he just...." He gestures futilely. "It went downhill quickly, then."

"Well, that's silly," Raven says. "He started it."

"Yes!" Charles says. "Exactly, thank you!"

Raven shrugs. "Sorry, that's awful, but I don't know what to tell you. I'm sure once he thinks about it, he'll feel silly. He'll be fine tomorrow."

Charles is less sure of that, but he can tell that Raven, desperate as she is for a distraction, doesn't want to talk about Erik any longer. Besides that, he knows that the crux of the problem isn't the joke about the woman's beauty, but the fact that Charles noticed it at all. That's what Erik kept asking him, what he was so concerned about--that Charles found that woman attractive in the first place. That Charles found any woman attractive.

He's not about to discuss that with Raven, though, not here in the living room while she's half paying attention to the television.

"Help me with this math homework," Raven says, reaching out and tugging on his sleeve until he sits on the floor with her. Normally he'd tell her to do her own work, remind her that if she would just focus on the problems she'd get them done in no time and if she just did her work when she first got back from school she wouldn't be so panicked about it in the evenings. Today, though, he goes easily, looking at the problems in the book and then back at her homework and offering instructions.

He knows that Erik doesn't find women attractive, but he doesn't see why it's a problem that Charles does. As he said over and over to Erik in the car, he loves _Erik_. He doesn't want to be with a woman, with _any_ woman. If the actress from the film knocked on their front door right this moment and asked Charles for a kiss, he would turn her down. If he's not going to be with anyone but Erik, why does Erik even care?

Charles doesn't understand it, not at all. Of all the things that make him up, that one's so small, practically irrelevant to the person he is. It's just another fact about him. He's a mutant; he's short; he's smart; he's attracted to men and women both. None of those are traits he can change, or anything he can take any responsibility for. They don't say anything about _Charles_ in particular, the way other things might. His fascination with genetics, the way he uses and explores his telepathy, his relationship with Raven and his love for Erik-- _those_ are important.

Raven lets out a dramatic sigh as she finishes the last problem. "Finally!" she groans. "I thought I'd never get to the end. Have I told you lately you're my favorite brother, Charles?"

"Not lately," Charles says. "Is that it, then, or do you have more assignments you've put off?"

"Oh, just a few paragraphs for English," Raven says dismissively. "But that should only take five minutes. I can do it during lunch."

If it only takes five minutes, that's all the more reason to do it now, Charles thinks, but in the mood he's in, it feels like too much of a bother to lecture her about it. Instead he merely says, "As long as you don't get distracted canoodling with Buddy and forget about it."

Raven rolls her eyes rather than responding and begins to gather up her things. The program on the television has ended, so Charles walks over to turn off the machine. 

"Goodnight, Charles," Raven says. "And stop sulking. I'm sure you two lovebirds will make it up in the morning."

"I'm not sulking," Charles replies, but Raven's already gone by the time he gets the words out, out the door and headed to her bedroom.

Charles should probably follow her lead, but though it's gotten late, he doesn't feel tired at all. If he went to bed now, he would just be too antsy and fidgety to sleep. He doesn't want to stay in the den and watch more television, either, though. His father's study, then, he decides. If there's any place in the house that could calm him down, it would be that room. He can fold himself into one of the leather armchairs, bury himself in a book amid the comforting (albeit imaginary, after all these years) smell of pipe smoke.

He curls up in one of the chairs with a novel he's been reading, but it's hard to concentrate. The low fire crackling in front of him is bathing the room in an orange glow that makes everything seem cozy and warm, and he can't help but let his mind wander back to Erik, to games of chess played in this room, evenings doing their homework together and, more recently, kisses they've shared in front of this same fireplace.

He leans the book against his stomach and sighs, giving in and staring into the fire. He wishes he could understand why Erik is so upset. It honestly doesn't make any sense to him. He loves Erik. He doesn't know how he can make that any clearer and he thought that Erik knew. What does any of it matter as long as he's with Erik? Or does this mean that Erik doesn't want to be with him any longer?

Charles squeezes his eye shut. He can't let himself think that way. Erik was probably just tired. He'll probably apologize as soon as they get to school tomorrow, and everything will be okay again. He's probably just blowing this out of proportion, nervous as he is about his Harvard interview on Saturday morning. Erik's probably already moved on, he probably feels silly about the whole thing.

He drifts off, sitting there in front of the fire, and wakes a few hours later, stiff and exhausted and still anxious and confused. He makes himself get to his feet and head up to bed, falling back into a restless sleep as soon as he crawls under the blankets.

***

Erik lingers too long at home before making himself leave for school. He knows that Charles will be there waiting for him and that he'll want to talk about last night and Erik still doesn't know what he's going to say. He doesn't know what he _can_ say. Charles is going to want to know what's going on in Erik's head, but Erik can't put it into words.

There are all these things Erik doesn't know how to talk about. He thinks he's getting better at some of it, the sex stuff, these past few months with Charles, but even there--at least that's something physical, mostly. He can _show_ Charles what he means, if words still fail him. And sometimes, with other things, it feels like Charles knows him just as well as he knows himself, like Charles can take the fragments of thoughts Erik struggles with and somehow articulate them better than Erik can.

But it's not like Charles is a magician, or a miracle worker. Erik can't just expect him to understand, no matter how much he wishes he would.

He's dawdled long enough at home that by the time he reaches school, Charles is already there, leaning against Erik's usual spot by the wall. It's snowed again overnight, a light coating of white that crunches underfoot as Erik steps across the grass to join him.

Charles is bundled up in his winter coat, which is fine black wool, smart and expensive-looking. It contrasts a little garishly with his mittens and scarf and hat, which are all handmade by Raven in blue and yellow yarn. Raven's knitting is always a mixed bag, depending on how much attention she's paying at any given moment, so that the results are impeccable in some bits, looser and messier where she eventually gets bored. Charles always wears the results just as if they're as high a quality as the rest of his clothes. Erik wears things Raven's made him, too, with pride, even, but he's always aware of exactly what they are.

"Hi," Charles says as Erik approaches. His breath is visible in the air, hanging for a moment after his words. His face is pale except for the reddened tip of his nose, and his eyes look even brighter than usual. Erik can't help but feel a warm rush of affection (it still startles him sometimes, how _pretty_ Charles can be, and that it's okay for him to notice and appreciate it), even as Charles' gaze flickers quickly across Erik's face, searching something out.

"Hi," Erik replies. He holds himself still under Charles' appraisal, but whatever Charles is looking for, he doesn't seem to find it. After a few seconds, he turns his gaze away to the mass of students in front of the school, with another puff of breath as he exhales.

"Are you ready to tell me what happened last night?" Charles says softly.

Erik opens his mouth, but he can't think of what to say. He shakes his head instead, even though Charles isn't looking at him.

When Charles speaks again, his voice is even softer. "Is this--do you want to break up with me?"

Charles said that out loud, here in the middle of the schoolyard. All the muscles in Erik's body seem to tense up at once, and he can't help jerking his head around, to see if anyone is nearby.

"Nobody can hear us," Charles says--and now he sounds impatient. "Nobody is looking at us, nobody even cares, Erik! Even if they did, I could make them think of a hundred things they'd rather think about. Give me some credit."

"I always give you credit," Erik says. He does. That's not--

It's going so badly already.

"Apparently not," Charles snaps in reply. His voice has taken on a tone that always sets Erik's teeth on edge--snooty and condescending and spoiled. He knows that most the time--nearly all the time, really--that Charles sounds like that it's because he's hurting and wants to cover it up, but it's hard to force himself to remember that when hearing Charles talk that way makes him so embarrassed and so angry.

Erik grits his teeth.

"I can't talk about it right now," he manages to say. It's the truth--with people all around them and Charles getting upset and defensive and his own thoughts still muddled and hurt and confused, he can't very well be expected to talk about this. Charles' telepathy is impressive, but it's not infallible. Anyone could hear, and Erik can't even work this out in his own head. He can't even talk about it to Charles, yet. He doesn't know what he would do if anyone else heard. He can't stand the thought of anyone else hearing this and knowing his secrets, knowing how his mind works, knowing what's in his heart. That's private, it's for him and sometimes Charles and it's all he has.

He can't say any of that to Charles either, though, so Charles just says, "Fine," high and clipped, then pushes off of the wall.

"I'm going to my locker," he continues, and walks into the school without looking back.

Maybe by the end of the day it won't matter. Maybe by the end of the day, Charles will have broken up with him.

He can barely concentrate in his first few classes, for all his mind is occupied by his problems, and it's even worse in the next few, when Charles slides in next to him, or even in the classes where they sit alphabetically and Charles is far behind him. He's always been able to feel Charles' presence, like an extra sense with limited practical applications. He can feel Charles' eyes on the back of his neck, and when the class breaks for lunch, he has to force himself to linger and wait for Charles instead of running away and hiding somewhere until afternoon classes.

They manage to eat sitting across from each other without talking or hardly looking at each other. Charles, Erik notices, doesn't eat much at all, playing with his food more than consuming it. Erik's not one to waste food himself, and eats his entire lunch in the same precise, orderly way he always does, even though he feels vaguely sick.

The final bell comes too quickly, after another afternoon of classes to which Erik couldn't pay any attention at all. He knows Charles will be waiting for him and he knows that once they're back at his house, alone and with no excuses or distractions, he'll be forced to explain everything. He still doesn't know what there is to explain.

He doesn't let himself linger or take any more time than he absolutely needs to, packing up his bag and heading to his locker. Charles isn't there, which means he must be outside already, waiting by the bicycle rack. Erik squares his shoulders and marches out, trying his best not to let any of the weakness or uncertainty he feels show anywhere.

If he was made of metal, instead of brains and guts and all these soft and twisty things….That would be easier, wouldn't it? Metal is easy. It has rules. Erik understands it just as much as he doesn't understand any of this.

When he gets outside, Charles is exactly where Erik expects him to be, but he's not alone. He's chatting with one of the boys from their grade, Gary, who's in their calculus class. He and Charles were on the planning committee together for the junior class's field trip to the city last year. Erik's heard Charles say a dozen times what a prat he thinks Gary is, but nonetheless Charles is smiling politely as he talks, nodding when Gary speaks like he actually cares what he has to say.

It's irrational for that to annoy Erik, but apparently being reasonable about anything is beyond his abilities today. He tries to push it aside, so Charles won't notice, but he doesn't know how well it works.

Maybe he _is_ just jealous of Charles. Jealous and stupid and selfish. What does it say about him that he can't even see Charles making small talk with a classmate without wanting to push the other person away?

Erik doesn't think that's it, though. It would be easier if it was.

Charles gives him a sidelong glance as he approaches, one that Erik can't quite read.

"Hey, Erik," he says, readjusting his bag on his shoulder. To Gary, he says, "We should get going. It was good talking to you."

"You, too," Gary says. "Think about what I said."

He heads off with a small wave, which Charles returns.

"What was that about?" Erik asks as they begin to walk down the sidewalk and toward the road that leads to his house.

Charles shrugs. "He was trying to convince me to do track and field again this year."

"Oh," Erik says. "Are--are you going to?"

He can see the way Charles' mouth tightens. "I thought my schedule was pretty full already," Charles says, just enough of a hint of ice for Erik to know he's said the wrong thing again. As if he doesn't realize that Erik wants to spend every single moment they can together, before Charles leaves for college.

"I just thought--" Erik scrambles to think of something placating to say, something to soothe Charles, but he's adrift. "You mentioned the other day, about your interview tomorrow. You mentioned--you hoped he wouldn't make a big deal because you're not doing any extracurriculars this spring."

It doesn't entirely placate Charles--he's still wary, his stance still guarded, his mouth still curled into a frown, but he untenses slightly, looks slightly less confrontational.

"Oh," Charles says. "No, it still stands. My father's family has been going to Harvard since it was founded. I doubt they'll hesitate to let me in, regardless of my extracurriculars."

"Right," Erik says, but he can tell Charles is still upset, because Erik knows he's not that blase about college. He's been nervous about the interview, about his finished and submitted essay, and even about how being a mutant affects his chances. He's shared all of those things with Erik, all of those secrets, even if he's now acting like Erik is other people, someone who doesn't know everything about him.

Maybe he's right. After all, Erik didn't know he liked girls. What else doesn't he know?

They don't speak for the rest of the walk back to Erik's house. Charles leaves his bike outside as usual, but instead of waiting for him, Erik slips in the front door and goes ahead to his bedroom. He still feels untethered and he longs for familiar surroundings, somewhere he knows he's on solid ground. He and Charles have fought before--they've even fought about big, important things before. Freshman year of high school they didn't talk to each other for days after Charles refused to back down from paying a school fee on Erik's behalf, without consulting him. When they were smaller, Erik once said something callous about Charles' life with Kurt and Cain and Charles had stormed away with tears in his eyes and not come to school for two days.

They fight and they apologize and they move past these things. They always have. Then why does this feel like it's so much more? Is it because they're so much more to each other? Why did Erik feel like his whole world was falling down on him when Charles made that revelation in the car last night? And why is Charles so obviously upset by Erik's reaction?

Charles walks into Erik's room slowly, after Erik's already seated on the ground with his back against the bed. He doesn't take his coat off as he sits down. He places his bag on the floor next to him, but he doesn't take out his books and he doesn't bother to glance at where Erik's history text is already open in front of him.

He stares at Erik, expectantly.

"I don't know what you want me to say," Erik says quietly. It's hard to meet Charles' eyes; his gaze has rarely been this sharp.

"An apology would be nice," Charles says.

"What for?" Erik asks before he can help himself, and he sees Charles' hands curl into fists.

"For running out on me last night?" Charles asks. "For...for getting so upset over something silly and making me feel badly about it."

"It's not silly!" Erik insists.

"It was just a stupid joke!" Charles says. "You were the one who started it! Why is it okay for you to say that actor is attractive, but you throw a tantrum when I say the same thing about a pretty girl?"

Erik shakes his head. "That wasn't it at all."

"Then what was it?" Charles' arms are crossed, tight against his chest. He looks tense all over. "I don't even look at anybody besides you, I haven't for ages. Why do you need to start making up these stupid hypothetical situations and then get mad at me about them?"

Erik brings his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. He shouldn't have said anything last night, he thinks. He should have just--just pretended, somehow, that nothing was wrong, pushed his way through it. It would have been awful, kissing Charles, tainting something that's always so good and right with that sick feeling--but at least then he wouldn't have to _talk_ about it.

But no: Charles would have known something was wrong, anyway. He would have been able to read it on him. 

"You know," Erik says, haltingly, "that I don't...with girls. I've never. Felt like that, I mean."

"I know," Charles says. "And there's nothing wrong with that." 

Easy enough for Charles to say, Erik thinks, biting his lip. Why is it all so _easy_ for Charles? Is it just his telepathy, or is it something else, something more intrinsic to who he is? How can he not worry about it at all?

Charles goes on, "But why should it matter if I do? It's not as though I was suggesting a menage a trois, for god's sake."

Erik doesn't recognize the phrase, even though it's obviously French--something about a household, or chores? The number three? From context, it's obviously sexual, though, and that makes him flush, abruptly angry again. He wouldn't have thought Charles would throw it in his face so easily, his relative ignorance.

Charles looks stricken, as though it's taken a moment to realize what he said. "I didn't mean it like that," he says quickly.

"Well, what did you mean, then?" Erik asks. If his tone is abrupt or challenging, he blames Charles and his inability to let this go.

"Nothing!" Charles says. "It doesn't matter. Stop trying to change the subject!"

"I'm not trying to change the subject!" They're teetering on the edge of an argument and something in Erik just wants them to have it, something in him wants to shout at Charles if that will make this creeping feeling in his chest go away.

"I just want to know why you're upset!" Charles shouts. "You're upset, you're angry at me, don't try and deny it! I want to know why! I want to know what I can do to help! I don't want you to be angry with me!"

"I'm not angry at you!" Erik shouts back in a tone that perhaps contradicts that. And he's not angry at Charles, not really. He's angry, yes. He's practically shaking with it. But it's not really directed at Charles. Erik doesn't know _who_ he's angry at.

"Then what's wrong?" Charles asks. His voice nearly breaks and Erik can feel how desperate he is, how anxious. It just makes Erik sicker. He doesn't respond, mouth closed tight, and after a few heavy seconds, Charles grabs his bag and gets to his feet.

" _Fine!_ " he says. "Don't tell me. I'm going home."

Erik wants to stop him, to call him back, but his limbs won't move and he can't speak. Charles hesitates for only a moment, obviously waiting for Erik to protest. He can see the flash of disappointment in Charles' face when seconds pass and Erik doesn't react.

Charles turns and leaves. Erik hears the front door slam behind him.

He could still go, Erik thinks, run and chase after him, catch Charles before he gets down the block. He still could stop him.

But what good would it do if he did? He still doesn't have anything to say, any explanations that would satisfy Charles. It would just be another scene, except worse this time, because it would be in the road, exposed, instead of the privacy of Erik's bedroom.

Erik stays curled up in that same position, thinking, after Charles leaves. He wants to scream, to yell, to break something, do _something_ to let out this pressure in his chest. But he can't do any of those things, not right now. After a few minutes, he picks up the history textbook that's still sitting beside him and forces himself to begin his assignment.

He makes his way through all of his homework, grim and steady. Even the English composition that isn't due until Wednesday, and then all the optional and extra credit assignments teachers have offered. He even reviews his French vocabulary for the quiz at the end of next week.

When he's finally sure there's nothing left to work on, he checks his clock. There's ten or fifteen minutes left before his mother should be getting home.

She's going to be able to tell that he's upset. She always does. Erik can't just keep faking being sick or exhausted all the time, can he? He wishes that, if he was going to keep lying to her like this, he could at least be better at it. He hates worrying her. She shouldn't have to deal with any of it, with the ways he screws things up.

Their relationship has changed some over the last few months. Ever since he's turned eighteen, she's treated him differently. He's an adult now--"the man of the house," she likes to say--and that means more freedom and more responsibility, all at once. The rules she's enforced all through his adolescence are mostly gone; she trusts him to do what needs to be done.

Her trust feels like a gift and a burden both, sometimes. Erik wants so badly to live up to how she thinks of him.

Friday night means leftovers, so Erik forces himself off the floor and puts on the oven. He can heat dinner, at least. It's something he should make an effort to do more frequently, but he's always so selfish and eager to use all of his free time to see Charles--maybe if Charles breaks up with him, it would be for the best after all.

He lets himself think that for the space of three heartbeats before acknowledging that he doesn't know what he would do if Charles broke up with him. He can't stand to think of his life without Charles in it, and if that's the case, then he needs to figure out what his problem is sooner rather than later.

When his mother gets home, supper is warming in the oven and the table is set for dinner. His mother is delighted, and disappears briefly to put away her purse and coat. Erik asks her about her day as he finishes up with dinner and answers some perfunctory questions about school. When he finally sits across from her, though, he can see that she knows something's wrong.

"Something is troubling you," she says, and Erik swallows.

"It's nothing," Erik says. Then, knowing she won't accept that and feeling too sick to keep lying to her entirely, he adds, "Charles and I just had a fight. He's really mad at me."

She frowns and reaches across the table to squeeze his hand tightly.

"Charles is a good boy," she says. "I am sure whatever it is you are arguing about will be forgiven."

Erik is less sure of that. He doesn't think they can move past it. If they don't talk about it, it's just going to fester. Charles is going to get sadder and angrier both every day that he assesses Erik and doesn't see whatever it is that he needs to see, doesn't hear whatever it is that he needs to hear. Charles isn't going to be happy with him until they settle this, and Erik has no idea how to get to that point.

"I hope so," Erik says, swallowing past the lump in his throat. His mother squeezes his hand again and he squeezes back, feeling like a child, immature and desperate for someone to make everything okay again.

"You are too young to frown like that," his mother says. "Time enough to worry and scowl when you are old, like me."

Erik manages a smile for her, and she looks a little appeased, if not wholly satisfied.

When they're done eating, he rises to clear the table, but she shoos him away from the sink when he tries to do the dishes. "You prepared supper, I will do the washing up," she insists, hands on her hips, and he knows her too well to think arguing with her will do any good. It's a small enough thing to add to the pile of guilt he feels already.

They watch television together in the living room. Erik remembers vividly when they first bought a television set: the excitement of it, and the novelty. Erik had seen programs at Charles' house plenty of times, but it had been another one of those countless luxuries that Charles lived with that didn't have any to do with Erik's real life. Now, of course, years later, it seems completely unremarkable, totally ingrained into their everyday routine. Things change that fast. Though for Erik's mother, it's different--for her, it still seems like just as magical a machine as it ever was.

Erik watches the women on the shows with extra attention tonight. He doesn't really think it will work, but there's some part of him that wonders that maybe, if he tries hard enough, he can make himself see it, feel it. He could be like Charles, at least. That would be enough; that would be more than enough. 

He stares at a perky blonde girl with a pretty smile and he tries to picture it. Kissing a girl wouldn't be so different than kissing Charles, would it? But even that seems impossible. The image is too slippery to hold, disappearing every time he tries to fix it in his mind, like trying to catch water with his fingers. It's wrong. 

He stays up with his mother until she excuses herself to retire to bed. She pauses by his armchair as she's leaving the room, and looks down at him. "Goodnight, my darling," she says. "I am sure things will look better in the morning."

Her eyes are kind. They always are. Charles' are the same way--or they usually are, when he's not so angry or upset, like today. 

Erik has never been kind. He doesn't know how to be, or if he would even want to be. But the people he loves are, and it makes him want so fiercely to protect them and keep them from ever being hurt or sad. But he doesn’t know how, and it's all the worse when he's the one causing those feelings for them.

"I'm sure you're right," Erik says. "Goodnight, Mama."

He goes to bed not long after her. He falls asleep quickly, and dreams of running. Hand and hand with Charles, bolting as fast as they can through endless hallways that all look the same--running _from_ something, hiding--until one of the hallways has a door, and Charles opens it, and leads him through. It's black as night inside, and they're safe, here, but they have to be quiet, have to be careful, and the room is small, seems smaller and smaller, until there's barely room for both of them, he and Charles two people where there's only space for one.

They're kissing, then, and it's familiar and perfect and good, until suddenly the dream shifts and Erik knows it's not Charles he's kissing any longer--it's another man, a stranger--and yet even as Erik realizes this, Charles' presence is there at his side, warm and heavy, Charles' voice in his ear. _It's okay, Erik, I'm right here with you, you're fine, all of this is okay_. 

And with the logic of dreams, it _is_ okay, just like Charles says, and Erik can let go, let himself kiss and touch and do anything, anything at all, and it all feels right….

Erik wakes. His pants are sticky and wet; he cleans himself off methodically, switches his pair of pajamas for a new one, and climbs back into bed. This time, though, he doesn't fall asleep so easily.

***

The only reason Charles doesn't cry on his furious bike ride home is because he's too angry. He lets the anger push him until his lungs are burning and he uses none of the caution he normally employs riding on snowy, icy paths in the winter. He gets off the main road as soon as he can and flies over the slick, uneven ground until he approaches the back entrance to the estate. Legs sore and burning with exertion, he slows as he makes his way up the servants' entrance, dangerously near tears now that he has time to breathe and think.

He doesn't know what Erik's problem is. He doesn't know why Erik is so angry. He doesn't know why any of this matters to Erik.

Luckily, before he can let the first sob escape, he reaches the tree branch that Erik has laid across the road and gets angry all over again.

Erik is so obsessed with what other people know, with what it looks like, with keeping everything a secret. Charles is sick of it.

He jumps off of his bike and kicks the tree limb. It barely moves, lodged as it is in the snow and leaves and other debris that have covered it in the past few months. He kicks it again, harder, and then leans over and shoves at it until it's obviously out of place. He doesn't know why that's so important, the vindictive thought that Erik will see this and panic, even if it's just for a second before Charles explains what happened. He wants Erik to panic. He wants Erik to feel upset and frightened because that's what Charles feels right now--upset and frightened.

Because right now it seems like there's a good chance Erik will never see this. Right now, Charles can't help but think he and Erik might be over for good.

He lifts his bike over the limb, sobering up and feeling the cold for the first time. He gets back on and peddles back to the house at a slightly less suicidal pace, turning into the garage and then pausing to knock the snow off of his boots before going into the house. He's back to feeling like he's going to cry, but he tries to swallow past it when he hears the television on in the living room.

"You're home really early," Raven says when he walks by.

"I'm still fighting with Erik," he tells her without elaborating, passing her by and heading straight up to his bedroom. He can tell even without his telepathy that she's following him, two or three steps behind, saying nothing. Charles ignores her and goes into his bedroom. He kicks off his boots and climbs onto the bed, curling up on his side to stare at the wall.

"I'm sure everything will be fine," Raven says. He hears her behind him, leaning against the doorjamb.

"I'm not," Charles says. They need to get past this if they want to stay together and Erik has displayed exactly zero willingness to talk things out with him. Charles is doing something wrong, has done something, has somehow upset Erik, but instead of talking about what and how and why, Erik just talks in circles. Charles doesn't know what to do. He's had enough on his mind already with his college interview looming, just a little over eighteen hours away now. Despite the flippant attitude he took about the whole thing with Erik earlier, he is nervous and Erik knows that. Erik was going to come over tomorrow morning and have breakfast with Charles before the interview, then stick around to spend time with him after. Now Charles will be lucky if Erik is speaking to him tomorrow. Not that he's done much speaking today.

"Charles," Raven says, half exasperated, half sympathetic. "It's _Erik_. He loves you. He'll come around."

"Maybe," Charles says, but he's not convinced. Raven sighs.

"Fine," she says. "Be a sad sack. I'm going out to the movies with Carol and Jimmy and Buddy. Make sure you stop moping long enough to eat dinner or you'll be a wreck for your interview tomorrow."

"I will," Charles says. He doesn't turn around, but he feels her lingering, just another few seconds, staring at him most likely, before she finally retreats.

He stays in that same position, the shallow winter light from the window slowly dimming around him until--suddenly, it seems, and all at once--it's fully dark.

He's lying in the dark, alone, feeling sorry for himself. Pathetic.

Eventually Charles forces himself up, off the bed and onto his feet, out of his room and down to the kitchen. The housekeeper's left a full meal in the fridge, but heating it up seems like too much work when he doesn't really feel like eating, anyway. He's hungry, though, his body physically annoyed at him for barely touching his lunch or this morning's breakfast, so he throws together a sandwich and forces it down. He barely tastes it, and he's overly aware of the sensation of chewing, which at the moment strikes him as oddly repellant.

He can sense his mother stirring on the other side of the house. He's not sure if she's just waking up for the day, or if she's rising from a nap. It doesn't make much difference, he supposes. He lets himself stay close to her for a little longer, feeling lonely enough to want to seek out the company of another mind, even for a moment--

But God, she's so unhappy. Charles is barely touching her mind, and he aches with it, too. _Christ, I could use a drink_ , his mother thinks, and Charles winces at it, tearing himself away and back into his own mind, completely alone in the empty kitchen.

That was a bad idea.

It makes him wonder, though. He's never been drunk, and he's certainly not going to start now, with his interview in the morning, but for the first time he can begin to see the appeal. This anger and sadness and uncertainty, fighting with Erik, is so exhausting, and yet it's tedious, too, at the same time, the same thoughts floating around his mind over and over and over again.

Charles leaves his dirty dishes in the sink and walks back to his room. He changes out of his clothes and into pajamas. While he’s stripping out of his shirt, he catches sight of himself in the mirror on his door, and he pauses for a moment, staring at his own reflection. There's a series of love bites along his collarbone from last weekend, when they'd spent hours making out. Just kissing, and then Erik's mouth on Charles' chest for ages, like he couldn't help himself, couldn't stop, and Charles didn't want him to, either, not ever.

Charles turns away and finishes changing, and then climbs under the covers of his bed.

He has difficulty falling asleep, replaying the images from the day over and over again in his head, trying to figure out how things could have gone differently. When he does sleep, it seems he's barely closed his eyes before his alarm block is blaring, pulling him out of his head and back into his bedroom, filled with early morning light and none of the answers he hoped he'd discover upon waking.

He's groggy and half-asleep and he knows he can't walk into his interview looking this exhausted. He stumbles downstairs to put on a pot of coffee--it's only nine-thirty, so he has about two hours to get ready, at least. With the coffee brewing on the stove, he goes back upstairs to take the coldest shower he can stand, for once not the result of too many dreams about Erik that he's slept in too late to take care of before school. The shower does a good job of shocking his system awake, and by the time he towels off and goes back downstairs in his sweats, he feels relatively more human.

Raven is up by then, spreading jam on toast while she leans against the counter in her bathrobe. She eyes him speculatively when he enters.

"Feeling better?" she asks. "When I left last night, I thought I could see an actual storm cloud over your head."

"Not really," Charles admits. He glances at the clock. It's nearly ten, which is when Erik said he'd be coming over. Charles' stomach hurts again. "But I should put on my best face for Dr. Mitchell. I can’t very well tell him, 'I'm sorry I'm interviewing so poorly today, my boyfriend is mad at me and won't tell me why.'"

"I suppose not," Raven says. "But Erik will show up. I know he will."

Charles glances at the clock again and then focuses on pouring himself a cup of coffee.

"It doesn't matter, I have to prepare myself to do this either way," he says.

He can feel Raven watching him, then hear her sigh. A moment later, there's a commotion behind him--Raven pulling out a frying pan and putting it on the stovetop.

"You have to eat real food, you can't just suck down a cup of coffee and hope it's enough to get you through the day," she says.

"I'm not hungry," Charles tells her.

"Yeah, well, think of how embarrassing it will be if your stomach growls while you're sitting in Daddy's study talking about all the stupid science you're going to do at Harvard," Raven says. She has a good point, so he takes a seat at the kitchen table and lets her make him runny eggs and toast. He watches the minute hand slowly close in on ten o'clock, then push past and further into the hour.

There's no sign of Erik.

He thanks Raven for breakfast and returns to his bedroom, taking out nicely pressed grey slacks, a nearly-new white oxford, a tie, and a sweater vest. He dresses meticulously and finishes the outfit with his newly shined shoes. When he looks in the mirror and makes himself smile, he almost appears normal. It's good enough for Dr. Mitchell, who hasn't seen him since his father's funeral when he was five years old. His hair is neatly tamed, his outfit is immaculate, and his best fake smile is good enough to fool a relative stranger. Any evidence of Erik, either on his mind or on his body, is hidden away.

Not from Raven, though, who's waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. She's changed as well, into a slightly nicer dress than she might usually wear on a Saturday at home, with her hair and make-up neatly done. He's reminded, suddenly, that with his mother asleep on the other side of the house, there's no hostess to greet and attend to Dr. Mitchell. It hasn't escaped Raven, who's clearly ready to play that role for him even though she regularly makes it clear this isn't the life she wants. He's suddenly and overwhelmingly filled with love for her--he can barely speak when he meets her on the first floor, hugging her tightly to him.

"Thank you," he says.

"Hey, hey, be careful you don't ruin my hair," she says, but she's holding him just as tightly. "Erik's a jerk. He should be here."

"He's not a jerk," Charles says automatically.

"He is," Raven insists, and finally lets Charles go. "Anyway, do you think Dr. Mitchell will want coffee or tea? Maybe I should make coffee now and I can boil water for tea if he wants it later."

"You don't have to do any of this," Charles says.

"I do," Raven says. "Anyway, it's no bother, and you're going to take me shopping to make up for it, so I'm getting the best part of this deal, really."

"I am?" Charles asks.

"You definitely are," Raven says, and then twirls away towards the kitchen.

Dr. Mitchell arrives precisely five minutes early. Charles greets him in the seldom-used grand foyer with a wide smile.

"Welcome," Charles says. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate you coming out all this way."

"It's no trouble," Dr. Mitchell assures him. He's a tall, skinny man with a slight stoop; he makes Charles think of some kind of bird--a crane, perhaps, or a heron. "The least I can do for the old alma mater, hm?" 

He gives Charles a kindly smile, and it strikes Charles all at once that most of the work of the interview is done already. Dr. Mitchell wants this to go well, too, has his mind largely made up already from his impressions of Charles' school records and achievements, his name, the house, his memories of Brian, Charles' firm handshake--all of it fits right into the box in his head, of what he thinks makes a good Harvard man.

It wipes the worry away, just like that, filling Charles with a kind of friendly ease--there are implications to that that he doesn't like, and he'll have to think about them more later, but for now he just appreciates the relief of it and leads Dr. Mitchell into the study so they can talk.

Really, it's not that difficult. Charles almost feels a little silly for how nervous he's been about it. Charles would never use his telepathy to cheat and just say what people want to hear; he would never _lie_ , or pretend to be someone he's not. But at the heart of it...it's easy, somehow, to figure what people are looking for or what they're interested in, the part they're hoping you'll play. It's easy to construct that self, to take the infinite number of complexities that make you up, highlighting the relevant ones and pushing aside the others. 

They talk about Charles' history, and his goals and plans for the future, and Charles lets all his love and enthusiasm he feels about it show, and he can sense Dr. Mitchell's approval the entire time. They talk a little about Charles' father, whom Dr. Mitchell knew only socially but has fond memories of, and about Charles' role as the man of the house since his stepfather passed away. He can tell, too, that Dr. Mitchell likes the implications of the strength of character he assumes inherent in those responsibilities.

When the interview ends, Charles leads him back to the front of the house, and they say farewell with another exchange of hearty handshakes. Raven waits approximately a minute after the front door closes behind the doctor before she appears.

"Well?" she says impatiently, grabbing Charles' arm and linking it with hers. "How'd it go?"

"It went well," Charles says. 

"I knew it!" Raven's tone is triumphant. She leans in--she barely has to tilt her head up now, she's gotten so tall--and kisses Charles' cheek. "Are you ready to take me out, then?"

"How about we do it later this afternoon?" Charles suggests. "I'd like to get some homework done in the meantime."

"I'm pretty sure by 'do homework' you mean 'sit around moping about Erik,'" Raven says, giving him a look, "but fine. I'll allow it this time."

"You're too good for me," Charles tells her honestly, but she just laughs and says "I know."

***

In the morning, Erik spends a long time in the shower, trying to decide what he should do. 

He and Charles had decided that he should come over in the morning, to be there for Charles on his big day. But they'd made those plans before they fought, before Charles was so upset with him. If Erik goes over now, he thinks he would just upset Charles again, agitate him and distract before this important thing he's already so nervous about.

No, Erik can't go to Charles' place. The fact that he's scared of seeing Charles again has nothing to do with it.

He doesn't want to stay at his house, either, though. He can't just sit around in his room all day. He can't spend hours around his too-perceptive mother while he's like this. 

Plus, he'd told her weeks ago that he was going over to Charles' today. She'd been so proud at the thought of Charles interviewing and going to Harvard, and he knows if he doesn't leave, she'll want to know why he's not headed to the Xavier house.

He's lied to his mother so many times that it comes easily to him.

"I'm heading out," he says to her after he eats breakfast. It's not a lie at all--he's just not going to the place she thinks he is.

"Please wish Charles good luck for me," she says to him when he leans over for her to kiss his cheek. 

"I'm sure he'll appreciate it," Erik says, though he plans to do no such thing.

He doesn't really have a plan. It's been so long since he's been anywhere without Charles that he's all but forgotten how to be alone out in the world. He rides his bike downtown and locks it to a lamp post on the corner. He wanders up and down the streets aimlessly, his mind returning to Charles constantly, even as he forces himself to think of anything else. It's hard to think of anything else--Charles is so wrapped up in the past thirteen years of Erik's life that he sees him everywhere. As he passes the sweet shop, he can't help but remember childhood trips to spend their pocket money inside. The bookshop brings a deluge of memories of slumping in corners going through used paperbacks with Charles and then sitting around while Charles loaded his arms up with more science books than he could carry. The diner, where they've eaten together more times than he can count, the movie theatre where they used to go every other week to see whatever was playing, even the jewelry store, where Erik once tagged along while Charles picked out a gift for Raven and then burst out laughing when the salesman mistook Raven for his girl.

All of these memories of Charles, all of these tiny moments together. They have a lifetime of them, stretching back from before Erik ever even thought about kissing him. Charles is nearly everything to him and has been ever since they were children. He's walking around town, sick to his stomach from what is now close to becoming the longest argument in the history of their friendship, and even here he can't stop thinking about Charles. He'll never be able to stop.

It should feel like a cage--like something meant to keep him captured and close, something that will stop him from leaving. Instead, it's strangely comforting.

He'll never be free of Charles, not really. He doesn't want to be. And that should be what's important, not the fact that Charles likes girls and Erik doesn't. He's used to being different, to being broken. He can handle it, if it means he gets to have Charles, still. He could handle even more than this.

He looks up at the clock on the corner at the bank, but Charles' interview has only just started. He doesn't want to go over there now--he doesn’t know how long it will last, and he'd hate to upset or distract Charles in the middle of it. Instead, he bides his time walking up and down the sidewalks of Main Street and finally settling in on a bench in front of the movie theatre. It's cold out, still, but he's warm enough and he'd rather wait out here, where he knows he's not bothering anyone, than inside the diner where he'd need to order at least a soda to justify keeping a table. He considers walking down to the library and holing up inside, but he'd rather wait it out here, close to his bike, until he knows for sure the interview is over.

Charles will still want to talk, he knows, but maybe he can head it off at the pass. Maybe he can just tell Charles he doesn't care that Charles likes girls too and kiss him and tell him how much he missed him these past few days and Charles will be distracted enough that he won't ask any more questions. And if Charles does get in a question, Erik can easily parrot back his own defense--it doesn't matter that Charles likes girls if they're together. It doesn't matter that Erik doesn't if they're together. 

He'll be fine. He will.

His fingers are starting to get cold when he decides he's waited long enough. Charles said he didn't imagine the interview going on longer than an hour, and he's waited a solid hour so far. By the time he bikes back to Charles' house, plenty of time will have passed. 

He rides quickly, while he still has his nerve, and soon he's ascending the Xavier driveway and finally pulling his bike around to the kitchen entrance. The door is open, as it almost always is, and no car outside probably means the man interviewing Charles has left already. He feels a momentary pang of guilt for not being here this morning, but he pushes it away to deal with later.

He goes straight inside. He knows knocking is pointless if no one is in the kitchen and he'd feel strange ringing the bell at the front. He hasn't done that for ages, since he was a little boy, still in awe of Charles' home and not yet sensitive to the turmoil inside of it.

The kitchen is empty, but he finds Raven in the living room watching television. She startles when she sees him, her eyes going wide, then narrow and angry.

"It's about time you showed up, you jerk!" she says.

Erik stiffens up instantly at her tone. He doesn't owe Raven any explanations, he tells himself. It’s nothing to do with her at all, nothing to do with anyone in the world but him and Charles. He ignores her accusatory glare and asks, "Where's Charles?"

"He's up in his room," Raven tells him. "But you shouldn't bother going up there if you're just going to make him upset again. He's been miserable these last two days because of you."

He doesn't let himself wince at her words, even though they feel like she's stabbing him in the chest. He doesn't say anything to her at all, just nods and and leaves the room again. He imagines he can feel Raven's eyes on him as he goes.

Erik’s pulse starts to race as he climbs the stairs and down the hallway to Charles' room. He _can't_ screw this up again. He has to fix it.

Charles' door is open. Inside his room, Charles is sitting at his desk, scribbling something in a notebook. Erik stands in the doorway for a moment before Charles notices him and looks up, his expression sorting through automatic pleasure at the sight of Erik, and then wariness, and finally a sort of reserved blankness.

Erik swallows hard. "Hi."

"Hi," Charles says quietly.

Erik has to be the one to speak first. He knows that. He's been practicing what to say the entire bike ride from town, over and over. "I'm sorry," he says. "You were right. It was stupid. It doesn't matter."

The words don't sound as good out loud as they did in his head; they tumble out too fast, falling over each in his haste to get them out, and he sounds too uncertain.

Charles blinks at him, and opens his mouth, but Erik talks over him before Charles can get a chance to speak.

"Don't break up with me," he says, hating the desperate, almost whiny sound of his own voice. "You can't. Charles…."

He remembers Charles in the car during their fight. _If you disappeared, I would want to die._ Erik isn't like Charles; he can't lay his feelings out so easily. He doesn't know how to show Charles how it feels, like something big and scary and messy and endless inside him, a part of him he can never tear out, built into the roots of him, pumping through his veins.

"I don't want to break up with you," Charles says. For all that his expression is blank and reserved, there's feeling in those words--Erik can tell he means it, but he can also tell that Charles is hurting, that it's Erik's fault.

"Then what do you want?" Erik asks before he can help himself. "I'm sorry. I am. It doesn't matter." 

He wanted so badly for those to be the magic words. He wanted Charles to accept his apology and move on, but his expression hasn't changed. He's still holding himself stiffly, still across the room, seated at his desk, and unlikely to jump up and run into Erik's arms.

"It does matter," Charles says, his voice still soft. "It matters because you're so upset--you were so _angry_. So it obviously matters to you. It matters, and you won't tell me, and I don't know what to do. I don't know how we can keep...doing this, being together, if you're so upset about something but you can't explain it to me. I don't want you to be upset, Erik. I don't want you to--to tell me not to worry about it while you're still hurting, because whatever it is, I'm going to keep doing it because I don't know any better!"

Erik is almost glad that Charles' voice is rising, that he's shouting by the end of it, because it starts to show on his face and that horrible blank expression is gone.

"It's not something you're doing!" Erik says quickly. "It's not--I don't know how to explain it."

"You have to explain it!" Charles says. "I don't know what's wrong! I don't want to keep upsetting you! I want to know what I can do!"

What he can do. Erik swallows, because suddenly it's all very clear to him, an easy solution.

"Read my mind," Erik says, the words rough in his throat. It costs him to say them, it makes him want to scream in fear because they're his thoughts, they're private, but if it will make this stop--if Charles can just _figure it out_ without Erik having to say it, maybe they can get past whatever this is. Maybe they can go back to the way it was before.

Charles stares at him.

"What?" he asks.

"Just...just read my mind," Erik says. "See for yourself. Just--do it."

He closes his eyes tight and digs his fingers into his palms. Charles reading his mind won't hurt, not really--Erik won't even know he's doing it. But the thought of Charles rooting around inside of him, in all of the secret parts of him makes him sick enough that he has to brace himself.

"No!" Charles says. His voice is high and shrill and closer and when Erik opens his eyes, Charles is standing in front of him, his eyes wide. "No, there are rules! I'm not supposed to do that unless you want me to."

"I'm telling you to!" Erik insists.

"But you don't want me to!" Charles shouts. "Anyone can see that! Why don't you just talk to me?"

"Because I don't know how!" Erik replies. "Because I don't know what to say! Because I don't want to be alone and I thought I wasn't and now I am and if I say it out loud, it's real!"

Some of the anger drains out of Charles' face.

"What do you mean?" he asks. "You're not alone, Erik, we're still together, we're still--I'm not breaking up with you, I told you that!"

"But I am!" Erik says. It feels like he's ripping out his insides. "I thought I was a freak, I thought I was _broken_ and then you told me I wasn't, we were the same, and I wasn't alone, but we're not the same! Whatever is...whatever is different about me, it's not the same. I can't like girls. I can't make myself, I tried, I'm just--I'm different." He swallows and looks away. "I'm different from you. I'm different from everyone."

For a long moment there's silence and Erik thinks, with a sort of eerie calm, about how much he wishes he could be anywhere else but here, or maybe even nowhere at all, and then Charles says, "Erik. _Erik._ "

His voice cracks in the middle of Erik's name, and he's taking Erik's hands in his own, clasping them painfully tight, and Erik still can't look at him.

"That's not true," Charles says. His voice is tight, almost angry. "None of that is true. You're not--you're not any of those things you said. You're not. You're bloody _perfect_."

Erik shakes his head silently, and Charles repeats it more loudly. "You _are_. You are exactly the way you're supposed to be. I know it, because...because if you weren't, you wouldn't love me, would you? We wouldn't have this, and--and what kind of world would that be? A worse one. A terrible one."

Erik does turn his head then, looking down into Charles' wide, pleading eyes. "I can't argue logic with you," Erik says, hoarse through his scratchy throat. "I don't know that stuff."

"So trust me, then," Charles says. He squeezes Erik's hands again. Part of Erik wants to pull away, but more of him is grateful for it, Charles' grip something safe and secure, familiar and good. "And maybe I like girls, too, but that doesn't mean it's strange for you not to. Don't you remember what I told you? It's normal. Lots of people are like that."

"You _say_ that, but--" Erik falters. Where are they all, then? Erik's never met anybody, never even heard of anybody. Charles might have read books, but just because things are in books doesn't mean they're true; it definitely doesn't mean they're not unnatural or strange.

Charles hesitates for a moment. "You know Mr. Parker who runs the bowling alley?" he asks, and when Erik nods, he continues, "He had a sweetheart who died in Korea. And Miss Emily who teaches kindergarten, and Miss Tiller from the junior high--they're not just roommates, they think of themselves like they're married, practically. And I've heard people thinking things in the locker room, once or twice. And none of that--I wasn't even looking for those things, so there are more, I'm sure. And that's just right here. In the city, people find each other more easily, I think, people who are all different in the same sorts of ways."

Erik doesn't know what to say; he doesn't know what to think. All he can do is stare down at Charles' animated face and listen, hold his hands and not let go.

"There are people all over the world, people in literature and history, even. You should see some of the books my great-great grandfather kept around." Charles smiles, just a little, just with one corner of his mouth, like it's supposed to be a joke, but Erik doesn't have it in him yet to laugh or smile back. There's something in him that's relieved, so relieved that he still can't quite believe it, but there's another, smaller part of him that's still sad. He wanted this to be something he and Charles shared, something that made them the same. 

"What are you thinking?" Charles asks. He lets go of Erik's hands with one of his, but it's only to move it to the side of Erik's face, stroking his cheek.

"I don't know," Erik says, and this time he's not lying. His thoughts are racing. "I guess I just...wish I could know them. Wish I could meet them and know. What's it--" He has to stop and swallow, the future rushing towards him at a pace he's not ready to accept yet. "What's it going to be like when you go away?"

Charles looks at the floor for a moment before turning a more determined gaze back up at Erik.

"We'll figure something out," Charles tells him with a firmness to his voice that makes Erik think he's already plotting. 

"I wish--" Erik stops himself again. He wishes for many things, though he doesn't like to admit those wishes to himself, sometimes. With wishes come a foolish surge of hope, insidious and silent, buoying Erik's spirits and setting him up for disappointment. Wishes don't mean anything, and he knows that, but Charles seems to run on hope, sometimes, and after the exhaustion of all of this confession he's too tired to keep it from infecting him as well.

"I wish we could be the same," he manages to say. He can feel himself flush. It's such a childish desire, something left over from grade school when Erik couldn't help but envy Charles' nice clothes and new bike and endless pocket money, even knowing where it came from. This is different, though, he tells himself. This isn't material. This isn't jealousy. This is something else entirely, a dark, secret need to share something private with Charles, something they can both relate to.

"We're practically the same," Charles says, dismissing it in the way he's always so quick to dismiss the little details that keep Erik up at night. "We're the same in lots of other ways."

"We're really not," Erik says quietly, because it's true. Outside of both being boys and both being mutants and both being (nearly) eighteen, they have so little in common. Erik is Jewish and poor and realistic and angry and hard. Charles is the opposite of those things. And now, even in this, they're not the same.

Charles sighs softly, but instead of rolling his eyes or dismissing it, he strokes Erik's cheek again, his eyes going soft.

"I missed you so much," he says, stepping closer and pressing himself against Erik until Erik has no choice but to drop his hand and pull him into a tight embrace. "I could hardly bear fighting with you. Next time just tell me, please? Tell me when you're upset. Tell me why. I don't want to fight with you like this. It tears me up inside."

Though Erik knows it's a lie--knows that it won't be as easy as just saying something out loud, knows each confession will shred him and burn him and _hurt_ \--he says, "Okay," anyway. In the moment, it feels like a truth, and that has to be good enough.

It feels like such a relief, holding Charles like this, strong and solid and real everywhere they're pressed together. His soft hair tickles Erik's nose and his breath is warm against Erik's neck and chest, slowing to an easy, calm relaxation as the minutes begin to pass. 

If it _were_ possible to melt into each other, to erase those boundaries for even a moment, person to person--

But it's not, of course. It never could be. And eventually Charles pulls back from the embrace enough to speak. He tilts his head up toward Erik and Erik has to blink, readjust himself to focus the narrow inches between them.

"Hey," Charles says, his voice barely a breath. Erik can't look away from the way his eyelashes flutter against his cheek; ten times, no a hundred times, more intoxicating than anytime he's seen the same thing from somebody on film. "It's past lunch time," Charles continues. "Come eat with me."

Erik hesitates. "Your sister is mad at me," he says, thinking of the reaction he'd gotten upon entering the mansion. He can't blame Raven for being protective of Charles, for that anger at anyone who would cause Charles unhappiness, because he feels the same way. Erik might not be able to keep but feeling prickly and defensive and withdrawn when she aims it at him, but despite the faintest touch of jealousy, he's glad Charles has someone else to do that for him.

"She'll have to get over it, then," Charles says immediately. His tone is firm, brooking no argument, and his hands frame Erik's face as he pulls him down into a kiss. Their first real kiss since the car. It might start out as something comforting, as Charles' reassurance to him, but it moves beyond that quickly, until they're panting and shaking against each other. Erik's knees are weak, and he doesn't know how Charles is upright at all, given the way he's wrapped himself so completely around Erik.

"Wait," Erik murmurs in between kisses, his hands clutching carefully at the hem of Charles' perfectly neat sweater vest. "Wait, we should--lunch first, like you said. And then kissing."

Charles groans. "Ugh, _why_?" He punctuates his words with a butt of his head, light against Erik's shoulder.

"Because I want to know everything about your interview," Erik says.

That's the right thing to say, because Charles beams at him and takes his hand, leading him out of the room as he launches into a detailed account of his morning--meeting with the old friend of his father's from Harvard who gave his interview, how he could already tell, before it started, that it was going to have a positive outcome, how relaxed he became in his relief, and the enthusiasm shared between the two of them for Charles' dreams and goals.

They're already eating sandwiches by the time Charles finishes, saying, "I know they're going to accept me, and I can see a future for myself there. It reminded me how excited I am to get somewhere I can really focus on what I'm good at without worrying about being too smart or too fast or too enthusiastic."

"I'm glad," Erik says, and he means it, despite the fact that enthusiasm and excitement will take him away from Erik. 

Raven comes in, then, scowling when she sees Erik at the table.

"He apologized," Charles tells her promptly. "We worked it all out, it's okay. It was...sort of a misunderstanding." 

Raven eyes him critically for another second before shrugging and taking a seat next to Charles.

"If you say so," she says. "Don't mess with my brother again, understand?"

"I won't," Erik says, and hopes it's true.

"I guess this means our shopping trip is off," Raven says. She pulls a crust off of Charles' sandwich and pops it in her mouth.

"No, we'll still go," Charles says. "I promised." To Erik, with his eyebrows raised hopefully, "Maybe I can take Raven shopping and come pick you up when we're done?"

"I'd like that," Erik says and, feeling bold, he nudges Charles' foot under the table.

They finish their sandwiches and Raven retreats to dress for shopping, leaving Charles and Erik alone in the kitchen to kiss at the door for longer than they should. While part of Erik wishes that Charles didn't have to go out with Raven, the rest of him is glad for an excuse to be alone with all the feelings he has wrapped up around their conversation this afternoon. It will be good to sort himself out instead of letting his hormones get away from him before he has time to figure out how to file away all these new ideas and thoughts and emotions.

When he returns home, his mother is obviously just getting back in from grocery shopping, putting away the last of the items.

"How was Charles' interview?" she asks.

"It went well," Erik says, another not-quite-lie. It did go well. Erik wasn't there for it, but it did go well. Then, because he has to get used to saying it eventually, "Charles is going to Harvard. They haven't--he won't get a letter until March, probably, but." He swallows. "Charles is going to Harvard."

His mother claps her hands together.

"Oh, how wonderful! I am very proud of him," she says.

"I am too," Erik says. "I--um, we're going out later to celebrate, but he had to run some errands first and I wanted to make sure you didn't need anything here."

"No, no, go celebrate," she says. "I am very glad it went well. I have my quilting group tonight, so I will be out also."

"Quilting group?" Erik asks.

"Yes, yes," his mother says. She's already moved on, tidying up the bags in the kitchen and clearing the counters, Erik already an afterthought as she gets ready to go on with her own life. "We meet at the library and make quilts for the veterans. Judith Adelman from the synagogue began it. She and Alma Richards and Emily Smith and...oh, several others. Your junior high teacher, Virginia Tiller--she comes. You must remember, you have helped cut fabric many times."

Erik stares at her. He does remember, absently, going to the library with her and cutting fabric while his mother and Rabbi Adelman's wife chatted in Yiddish, focusing on cutting as quickly and neatly as he could so he could leave and find a book to read until his mother was done. He hasn't had to do that in years, since he started high school, but that's not what catches him off guard.

"Miss Emily and Miss Tiller are in your quilt group?" he asks. Of course they are. Now that he thinks about it, he remembers seeing them there, sitting among the other women. He remembers being embarrassed at seeing them out of school, especially Miss Tiller, who was still his teacher.

"Yes," his mother says, but she's already sorting through the mail, barely paying him any mind.

He thinks about them, right here in this town, sharing a home, thinking of themselves as a married couple. They must have had to go through the same things he and Charles are going through--learning about themselves and each other, keeping secrets, being apart, hiding their love. But they're here--they're living in town, together, as old women. They're not some fictional characters in books, some ancient historical figures. They're not even living a glamorous life in the city. They're people he knows. Other people like him, right here in this town.

"Tell them I said hi," Erik finally says, still slightly awed. His mother glances up from the mail and smiles at him softly.

"Such a good boy," she says, and goes back to the letters in her hands.

Erik leaves her to her fussing and retreats to his bedroom to prepare to meet Charles. Charles may have a bright future, filled with goals and dreams and Harvard, but maybe that doesn't mean Erik can't be a part of it. They may not be exactly the same, but they love each other and they want each other and that's what matters, isn't it? Erik will still be here waiting for Charles when he gets back, waiting as long as it takes.

He imagines them as old men together, sharing a home, being together for long enough that people stop questioning them.

He smiles at the thought as he gets changed and waits for Charles to come pick him up.


End file.
